


Brooklyn Barnes

by littleblackfox



Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: Angst, Fisticuffs, Fluff, Grosse Pointe Blank AU, High School Reunion, Inappropriate Use of a Frying Pan, M/M, Murder, Pre-Serum Steve Rogers, Professional Killer Bucky, Smut, That punk's either in love with that guy or he has a newfound respect for life, gratuitous use of tumblr
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-17
Updated: 2017-09-19
Packaged: 2018-12-30 22:14:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 20,722
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12118314
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/littleblackfox/pseuds/littleblackfox
Summary: “The fates have spoken, sir,” Natalia sounds too damned pleased. “They want you to go home. And kill some guy while you’re there.”





	1. Contact Dermatitis

**Author's Note:**

  * For [cabloom](https://archiveofourown.org/users/cabloom/gifts).



> Written for Cabloom  
> Many thanks to the Buttaneers, who still havent seen the original movie, and to Rohkeutta and Obsessivereader, who have.  
> Flu meds and chocolate to my fabulous beta Eidheann

The back road is deserted this late at night. There are no streetlamps lining the stretch of road, just the silvery haze of a moon almost full in a cloudless sky. James keeps the key in the ignition of his motorbike switched off. He snaps up the visor of his helmet and slowly navigates the sloping bank by moonlight, listening out for the sound of an approaching vehicle. He freewheels down the last of the slope, one foot stretched out to guide himself, and comes to a stop near a cluster of bushes growing wild alongside the road. The movement disturbs a handful of crows, which caw furiously and flap clumsily away, settling again in a nearby stand of trees. James walks the bike back a couple of paces until he’s safely in the thicket, their sparse, tangled branches providing cover in the half light, and he looks down the road ahead to the black mouth of the tunnel.  
Any minute now.  
His phone wakes with an incoming call, and the jaunty opening bars of _Kalinka_ start to play. James hisses in annoyance, pulling off his helmet and tapping the bluetooth wedged into his ear.  
“What?” he snaps, shaking his hair out of his eyes.  
“Listen to this,” says a familiar voice, lilting and soft.   
“Natalia, I’m working right now.”  
“You’re no fun, boss,” she complains. The soft burr as she rolls her r’s and elongates her vowel sounds as clear an indication of her home country as her ringtone.  
“Fine, but be quick about it,” Bucky relents, putting his helmet back on. She’ll only keep calling otherwise.  
“ _Dear Brooklyn High Alumni_ , you people are hilarious, you know that?” Natalia chuckles to herself. “ _Can you believe it’s been ten years since you graduated? What are you up to now_?” Natalia pauses, waiting for James to respond.  
James feels a trickle of ice run down his spine. Ten years? Has it really been that long?   
“ _Are you trekking in Bali, like Darcy Lewis? Or a Data Processor like Scott Lang? Maria Hill works in Public Relations for Stark Industries_.”  
There is a car coming, James can make out the sound of it smashing into the tunnel wall. In the darkened mouth he sees a distant spray of sparks. His heart kicks in his chest, sweat prickling his brow.  
“ _Whenever news of you comes back to us, the school is so excited and proud of your accomplishments_. Are they, sir? Are they proud of you?” James can hear the rustle of pages over the line. “ _Like Ste_ -”  
“Stop!” James yells.  
His pulse is hammering in his ears, almost as loud as the scream of metal grinding against the concrete tunnel wall. A black sports car, the paintwork stripped down one side, comes careening out, one of its headlights smashed, the other stuttering in the gloom. It catches the near edge of the tunnel, shearing off a chunk of concrete and sending debris across the road.  
The back tires spin, leaving a line of rubber on the road along with a stench of burning plastic and heated metal. As he watches, the car straightens out, its momentum slowed down by the drag along the tunnel wall, and continues down the road.  
James watches it roll past from his hiding place, and growls in frustration.  
Fuck.  
The fucking thing was supposed to crash. He’d been careful, made sure he had the right car before crawling underneath and getting to work with a pair of wire cutters. A tragic accident, the client had insisted, a reckless driver spinning out of control on a back road.  
James flips down his visor and turns on the ignition, gunning the engine and pulling out onto the road in pursuit.

James keeps his distance, riding dark and following the slow zigzag of the car's single functioning rear light up ahead. He’d been up and down this stretch of road half a dozen times earlier in the day, memorising the route, and bides his time as they travel along the straights. There is a hairpin turn up ahead and he twists the handlebar, picking up speed and sneaking up behind the car, catching a glimpse of the driver. Bald head, thick greying beard. Okay, so that’s a visual confirmation of the target.   
James turns on his headlights, blinding the driver. The car swerves wildly, and James draws up alongside it on the undamaged side, adjusting his grip on the handlebars and swerving sharply, ramming into the side of the car. It’s a risky move, the Harley is heavy and easy to tip over should the driver fight back.  
The car skids, and James slams into it again before the target can recover, pumping the brakes as the he spins out of control and off the road, smashing into a line of trees.  
James slows down, pulling up alongside the wreckage and checking that the road is still empty.  
“Everything alright, sir?” Natalia’s voice whispers in his ear.  
“Hold on a minute,” James mutters, leaving the engine idling as he knocks out the bike’s kickstand and dismounts.  
He walks over to the car. The hood is crumpled up, the largest of the trees firmly embedded in the front bumper, the smaller saplings crushed under the wheels. The windshield is shattered.  
The target is slumped over the steering wheel, his face bloody and broken, blood soaking into his greying beard, and James allows himself a moment of pride for overriding the airbag earlier. There is a soft groan, and the man shifts in his seat.  
“Aww, fuck,” James groans.  
The driver side door is smashed in, so James walks around to the passenger side and manages to force it open, the twisted metal catching on his leather gloves and tearing holes in them.  
“Hey pal,” he murmurs softly, kneeling on the glass strewn passenger seat. The target blinks slowly at him.   
“It’s okay, pal,” James reaches out and puts his hand on the back of the guys neck. “Help is coming, you’re gonna be okay.”  
The target relaxes, and James pulls his head back, uttering soft reassurances, and smashes his face into the steering wheel. There is a crunch of bone and a spray of blood, covering what’s left of the windshield.  
He waits a moment, making sure that the target is dead, and reverses out of the car with a sigh before pushing the door shut.  
“Fuck,” James swears vehemently.  
“Is there a problem?” Natalia asks.  
James shakes his head, more to himself than in answer, and takes a moment to lever open the fuel cap. He pulls off his right glove and leaves it on the roof of the car, and feels around in his pocket for a spare bootlace. He feeds most of the lace into the fuel tank, waiting a moment for it to soak and dragging it partway out again. He lights the trailing end with his zippo, and grabs his glove from the top of the car before going back to his bike.  
“Tell the client it’s done,” he says, knocking up the kickstand with the heel of his boot and pulling on his glove. He guns the engine, and continues on down the road.

James is some distance away when the car goes up with a distant _whump_. James doesn’t slow down or turn to look, keeping his eyes on the road ahead.   
He heads south, getting off the road as soon as he can and cutting through the sparse woodland until he reaches another road, leading down to the coast.  
“So what do you think?” Natalia finally asks.  
She had been silent for so long that James had forgotten she was still on the line. James sniffs. “If they suspect anything it’ll be a hit and run. Nothing to tie anyone to the-”  
“I mean the letter, sir,” Natalia interrupts.  
James quickly runs through their previous conversation, and his mouth flattens to a thin line.  
“Shred it.”  
“Aww, come on, this could be good for you,” Natalia wheedles. “Do some networking, find a few new clients.”  
“Don’t be coy, Nat. You know what I do for a living.”  
Over the line Natalia snorts, and James can’t help the way he smiles. Just a little bit.  
“Why are you so damned invested in my high school reunion?”  
Natalia considers her answer, the silence between them long enough to make James feel guilty about snapping.  
“I just find it amusing that you came from somewhere,” she says. “That you weren’t just found frozen in a vault in Siberia or something.”  
“Ha fucking ha,” James grumbles.  
“Like those neanderthals they find in the ice.”  
“I’m hanging up now, Nat,” James pulls over onto the hard shoulder and yanks off his helmet, taking off his glove and scrambling to reach his bluetooth.  
“They just gave you some biker leathers and a gun and let you loose.”  
“Fucking bye,” James pulls the device out of his ear. He can hear the static crackle of Nat laughing as he thumbs off the controls.  
He shoves the damn thing in his pocket, shaking out his hair and tucking it behind his ears before pulling on his helmet.   
He fixes his gloves and pulls back out into traffic, and doesn’t stop until he reaches D.C.

*

James is in Starbucks waiting in line for an iced black coffee when his phone rings.   
The Imperial March booms ominously as he checks the caller ID on his phone. Alexander fucking Pierce, the absolute last thing James wants to hear today is Pierce’s particular brand of enthusiastic pseudo parenting.  
Okay, second-to-last thing he wants to hear.  
James summons his resolve and swipes to answer.  
“Alexander,” he grimaces and moves to the front of the queue.   
“James!” comes the overly loud reply. “Where are you these days?”  
James takes his order from the scowling barista and wedges himself in a corner by the counter, phone crooked against his shoulder as he fumbles with his straw. “Bucharest.”  
“Sounds charming,” Pierce’s tone sours. “Taking a tour of Revolution square?”  
“After my time,” James smirks.   
Okay, cheap shot. He’s been in the trade for a few years now, earned himself a reputation, but Pierce is _old_ , for all his particular brand of rugged charm, and old fashioned with it.  
Pierce recovers quickly. “I want to talk to you, _kid_.”  
Bucky snorts to himself. Kid? He’s nearly _thirty_ , not some amateur shaking in his boots after his first hit.  
“Send me an email,” he snaps, shoving the straw in his mouth and sucking on his iced coffee hard enough to give himself brain freeze.  
“I’d prefer face to face.”  
“Fine,” Bucky shoulders open the cafe doors. “Schedule an appointment.”  
“How about now?”  
It’s an odd sort of echo, the distorted sound of Pierce’s voice over the phone a second or so after his actual voice. James heaves a sigh and looks up to see Pierce standing on the sidewalk, a paper cup of white Americano in his right hand. Because he’d die before touching a macchiato or something with hazelnut syrup.  
“James!” he calls out with a smile. “Fancy seeing you here.”  
James grits his teeth, and manages something broadly smile-like as he ends the call and slips his phone into his pocket. “Alexander.”  
“What’s all this?!” Pierce waves at James clothing with enough disgust to make him quickly glance down at himself.  
Black t-shirt, converse, Black jeans, tightly hugging his ass, because if you’ve got it, fuckin’ flaunt it.  
Pierce wrinkles his nose. “You look like you’re going to a funeral.”  
James shrugs and starts walking down the street, moving away from the crowds in case the situation heads south. Pierce falls in step alongside him, sipping at his coffee with evident satisfaction.  
“What do you want?” James mutters around his straw.  
“I want to talk to you.”  
James chews on his straw a little, if only to annoy him. “So what you waiting for? Talk.”  
“Let me tell you about Hydra. It’s the future for those in our...” Alexander smiles again, sharp and brittle. “Unique profession.”  
James offers a non-committal grunt, which Pierce takes as permission to keep talking.  
“James, we need to be realistic. With the situation abroad, all that globalisation and expansion, an ever shrinking world with the United States at the center of it all, the market is flooded. You can’t move for amateurs, pushing the prices down.” He takes another sip of coffee. “You know how many botched hits are performed for a hundred bucks by an idiot with nothing more than two brain cells and a gun? It’s a buyers market.”  
James nods grudgingly. As much as the idea of agreeing with Pierce leaves a bad taste in his mouth, he has a point. “So what’s this Hydra business? A union?”  
“Oh no, no. Nothing so crass.” Pierce waves his coffee cup between them. “More like a club, a gathering of like-minded individuals who deserve to be well remunerated for their talents. With an exclusive membership, of course, only the brightest minds and sharpest shooters.” Pierce pauses as a couple approach on the sidewalk and slowly walk past, waiting until they are out of earshot before continuing. “Making a lot of money killing important people, not scratching about earning pennies for offing business rivals.”  
James ignores the barbed remark. “And you’d be the president of this club?”  
“More of an overseer,” Pierce looks pleased with himself as he sips his coffee.  
“No thanks.”  
It’s almost worth it to see Pierce spit Americano down his expensive shirt. The things they do for a living and he wanders around in a three piece suit like a respectable fucking businessman, and not a bastard who kills people on witness protection because it pays the best money.  
James sucks on his iced coffee, doing his best to look innocent while Pierce glares at him, pulling his thin lips over his teeth.  
“Listen, _kid_. We are talking about consolidation here, taking over the industry. Any contracts issued in American soil will go through us, for a reasonable fee. No independent contractors, no rival agents. This is your chance to be on the ground floor,” Pierce changes tack, his expression concerned, almost parental. “You’re good at what you do, James. A natural. You’re quick to adapt and brutal in your efficiency. I hate to see you wasted.”  
James stops short in the middle of the street. That kind of shit never worked when James’ father tried it, soaked in whisky and remorse. No way in hell would he let Pierce pull the same stunt.  
“I said I’m not interested,” James snaps, pointing his iced coffee at the fresh stain on Pierce’s shirt. “Not interested in working for your dirty little guild, not interested in working for you. So back the fuck off.”  
Pierce holds up his hands in mock surrender. “You’ll regret it.”  
“Yeah, whatever,” James growls.  
“You’ll join us soon enough,” Pierce takes a handful of paces backwards, not taking his eyes off James. “Or you’ll never work in this industry again.” When he’s at a safe distance he turns away, a swagger in his step. “Either way I’m gonna get you. _Kid_.”  
James groans softly.  
Fuck.

Kalinka starts playing, and James yanks his phone out of his pocket and answers the call.  
“... _So come on back to the old oak tree, little acorns! How did you people win the Cold War, James? Signed, Brooklyn High School Reunion Committee_.”  
“Natalia, I will set everything you care about on fire,” James hisses. “Even that arrow guy of yours.”  
“That arrow guy is our arms dealer,” Natalia says crisply. “If you know anyone else who can supply you with a thousand rounds of .380 soft points in six hours or less, I’d be happy to switch suppliers.”  
James can’t think of a good comeback, so sucks loudly on the icy dregs of his coffee instead.  
“I just got off the phone with a very unhappy client, sir.”  
James rattles the last of the ice in his takeout cup. “How is that my problem? The guy’s dead, isn’t he?”  
“It was supposed to look like an accident.”  
“He was supposed to spin out in the tunnel. What do you expect me to do? Was the guy a NASCAR driver in his free time?” James grumbles.  
“Sir, this is a valuable client, we’ve done a lot of business with him over the years.”  
James walks over to a trash can and dumps the empty cup, taking a moment to rub his cold thumb between his brows.  
“He’s holding you responsible for this,” Natalia keeps her voice low and soothing. “And expects you to make amends.”  
James digs his thumb a little harder into the furrow between his eyebrows.   
“Sir?” Natalia says carefully.  
“Fine,” James huffs, swiping his hand over his face. “Get back to me when you have the details.”  
He ends the call, and takes a moment to glare at the blank screen.   
“Fuck,” he mutters under his breath. “I need a drink.” 

Pinche is the kind of downtown bar that never seems to close, and whether you skulk through the doors at the asscrack of dawn or just shy of last call, there’s always the same three old guys propping up the bar, crunching their way through bowls of chicharrones and bitching about sports.  
Hell, if the owner and proprietor, an overly cheerful Mexican who knows how to handle a chain, ever cleaned the windows or replaced the busted light fittings, you might even be able to see from one end of the room to the other. Not that Luis would ever go for such things, he likes the place dingy with a lingering odour of cerveza and fritos. Say’s it gives the place ambience.  
James likes Pinche. Likes the name, likes the way his feet stick to the floor a little, the way no one gives him a second look when he walks through the door. And he definitely has no risk of running into competition. The thought of Pierce at the bar sipping at a glass of tequila makes him snigger quietly.  
“‘Sup, Jaime?” Luis calls from behind the bar, pulling a bottle of beer out of the fridge behind him and cracking it open.  
And yeah, James really likes Luis. Likes him well enough to have told him what he does for a living, one night a while back when a job had almost gone south and his hands wouldn’t stop shaking. Luis, bless his heart, had listened without judgement and opened up a bottle of gold.  
James takes a seat at the bar, and Luis pushes the beer towards him.  
“Thanks,” James reaches into his back pocket for his wallet, but Luis flaps a bar towel at him.  
“Fuck that, brah! Your money’s no good here, you know that.”  
James murmurs another thank you and takes a sip of cold beer. He lets out a deep sigh and slumps in his seat.  
“How’s business?” Luis asks, keeping his tone casual.  
James fights the urge to tense up again. “Ugh,” he answers succinctly.  
“That bad, huh?”  
“Ugh,” James says, a little louder. He swallows another mouthful of beer, carefully lining up his words before he dares open his mouth. Allusions to contract work, a job going awry, and an angry client who wants more done for free. Finished with a shake of his head and something rueful about customers who think they know everything.  
“I got invited to my highschool reunion.”  
James snaps his traitorous mouth shut. Fuck.  
Too late, Luis’ face brightens up like the first sunrise in the garden of frickin’ Eden.  
“For reals?! Aw man, that’s great, you should totally go.” He flips his bar towel onto his shoulder. “I had mine a couple years back, was an absolute blast. I hooked up with this girl Emily? First girl I ever made out with back in school, so that was a nice thing to touch on.” Luis’ expression turns wistful. “Really nice. But my cousin Ernesto said he had dibs, even though she never looked at him twice, and I said to him a girl's body is her own fucking choice, man! You don’t get to say what she does with it, or who she does it with, but Ernesto didn’t take kindly to that and punched me in the face.” Luis cracks his jaw, and James winces in sympathy. “Emily was always a dirty fighter though, kicked him in the cojones, made him cry like a baby. It was a great night, you should definitely go.”  
“I don’t know,” James shrugs. “They’ll all have families and kids and…” he picks at the label on his bottle. “Dogs and mortgages. Made themselves a part of society or some shit, and can talk about their boss being an asshole or the weather or summer camp or… fuck, I don’t know. What do real people talk about?”  
“You’re a real person,” Luis says gently.  
“It’s not like we have anything in common anymore. What am I supposed to say? ‘Hi, I killed the Artistas Asesinos single handed, how have you been?”  
Luis pours a shot of his best tequila and pushes it across the bar, and James sips it gratefully.  
“I think it’ll be depressing,” James mutters into his liquor. “It’ll be depressing, right?”  
“Nah, man. It’ll be fun.” Luis gives James a shrewd look. “Unless you’re avoiding something? You got an ex back in your hometown? She won’t be pleased to see you?”  
James grimaces. “Something like that.”  
“Ah, I get it.” Luis nods in understanding. “You gotta go back.”  
James sits upright, jostling his empty glass of tequila. “Didn’t I just say-”  
“Shush, brah! Hear me out,” Luis refills his glass, spilling a few drops on the counter. “Dude, you got unresolved issues there.”  
“I don’t have issues,” James mutters churlishly. “I’m fine.”  
“Sure you are, man.” Luis wipes up the spilled liquor. “You’re not bad tempered or anxious or shit like that.”  
“Fuck off,” James mutters into his tequila.

Luis waits for James to finish his drink and tops up his glass. “Okay, I got a theory, I want you to hear me out.”  
James screws his eyes shut and takes a deep breath. “Go on then.”  
“You ever heard of somethin’ called ‘contact dermatitis’?”  
James cracks open one eye and glares at him. “What?”  
“My cousin Hernandez, he was trying to get back with his missus, who threw his out on account of him not keeping in his pants? More power to the lady y’know? I know he’s blood and all, but she could do so much better, I’m telling ya. If she could just open her damn eyes and see how Santiago looks at her, she’s like the world to that guy, and her kid too. Loves that little-”  
“How,” James rubs his aching head. “How is this relevant?”  
“Okay, so Hernandez got a job at Amazon, right? Figured he’d make some extra money, buy the kid something nice for Christmas, and all would be chill, yeah? So they had him in the warehouse making boxes and packing up iphones and kindles and shit. Made fuck all money, spent all day long filling these fucking boxes with shit he could never afford, with an asshole foreman yelling in his ear.”  
James frowns. “So?”  
“Just listen, man,” Luis waves his hands placatingly. “So one morning Hernandez wakes up and his hands are like… George A. Romero shit. They swollen and covered in pustules and he can barely bend his fingers. Guy starts freaking out, thinks he caught some nasty ass plague from all those PS Vitas and shit. So he goes to the the clinic, you know the free clinic down by-”  
“Skip to the end or I’ll shoot you, Luis. I swear I will.”  
“Contact dermatitis,” Luis emphasises with a grin. “That’s what the doc said. He’d been handling all these cardboard boxes, getting so wound up with all the work shit that his body just decided that fuck this! I’m allergic to cardboard now.”  
James pulls a strip of label off his beer bottle. “Seriously?”  
“I swear on my life. They guy just woke up one morning allergic to cardboard. Had to use steroid cream and wear gloves until it all healed up. Nasty fucking business.”  
James stares at the dregs of his beer. “I’m trying to see your point here, Luis.”  
Luis leans on the bar and fixes James with a look of gentle concern. “What I’m saying is that maybe the reason you’re feeling so fucking miserable is all that killing people, a lot of people. After a while your body just, like, rejects that kind of shit.”  
James snorts. “Don’t give me that, Luis. I don’t care about that stuff.”  
“Oh yeah? What stuff?”  
“Aww, come on.” James shifts uncomfortably in his seat. “Look, if someone comes to me with your name and a chunk of money, there’s a damn good reason for it. And I don’t go after women, or human rights lawyers or Greenpeace or that kind of shit.” He pulls the last strip of paper from his beer bottle. “I have some principles.”  
“I know you do, man.” Luis murmurs. “I’m just saying.”  
“That I have contact dermatitis,” James says slowly.  
Luis pulls another bottle of beer from the fridge and twists off the cap before handing it over.

*

James wakes up to the cheerful sound of Kalinka and swears under his breath. He fumbles under his pillow, snagging his phone and rubbing his eyes as he swipes to answer.  
Damned tequila on an empty stomach, what the fuck was he thinking?  
“What?”  
“Good morning, sir,” Natalia is obnoxiously breezy first thing in the morning.   
“There is nothing good about mornings, Nat.”  
James burrows under the duvet and braces himself for a well-meaning lecture on the benefits of regular sleep and leafy greens. When no such thing occurs he sits up with a groan. “Come on, out with it.”  
“I have a feeling about this,” Natalia announces, and James swears under his breath. “This is fate.”  
He climbs out of bed, shifting his phone to his other ear while he picks his pants up off the floor.  
“Come on, then, spit it out.”  
“Mr Cross has come back to us with a new target.”  
“Uh-huh,” James gives the handful of clothes a dubious sniff and throws them towards the laundry basket, before switching on the speaker and tossing the phone further down the bed. “When?”  
“This weekend.”  
“Nope,” He opens his wardrobe and grabs a fresh pair of jeans. “I have a lead time for a reason. I have to research, plan, make preparations. You know that.”  
“Mr Cross doesn’t care how you do it, just wants it done.”  
James pulls on the jeans and buttons them up with a frown. “What are you not telling me, Nat?”  
The phone is silent while he picks out a clean t-shirt and pulls it on.  
“Nat,” Bucky growls.  
“It’s in Brooklyn.”  
Fuck.  
James sits on the edge of the bed and glares at his phone. “You’re shitting me.”  
“The fates have spoken, sir,” Natalia sounds too damned pleased. “They want you to go home. And kill some guy while you’re there.”  
James sighs and flops back onto the bed. He turns to the phone lying beside him. “Any chance I can get out of this?”  
“None, sir.”  
James groans and covers his eyes with his arm.  
“Shall I book you an early flight?” she is insufferable in her triumph.  
“Nah,” James sighs. “I’ll drive.”  
He ends the call and throws the phone across the room.  
Fuck.


	2. A Sign of Sexual Frustration

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It was inevitable, really. You can’t expect to come breezing back into town and not bump into old friends, or enemies, or-  
> “Bucky?”  
> -or the long lost love of your life.

James expects to be immersed with a cloying wave of nostalgia when he arrives in Brooklyn, but instead all he feels is confusion.  
He drives through busy streets, waiting for something to slot into place, for some buried memory to shake itself loose after all these years. But he feels nothing.  
All the tourist-friendly stuff is still there. The Bridge and Coney Island, and Prospect Park, but it all feels strange, like looking at a postcard of a place you’re supposed to remember rather than having an actual memory of it.  
He checks into his hotel under a pseudonym and slouches up to his room, dropping his bag on the bed and doing a quick sweep. It’s small and well maintained, but he still checks the light fittings and the bed frame for hidden devices, before double checking that the door is locked and returning to the bed.  
He pulls the bag closer and unzippers it. The dossier that Natalia had handed to him yesterday, sealed in an A4 envelope, peeks out from under his clothes, and he pointedly ignores it in favour of digging out a clean t-shirt and underwear. He checks the bathroom before getting the shower running, and strips off his clothes. He turns his back to the bathroom mirror, looking over his shoulder at the mass of teflon tape stuck across the small of his back. He grits his teeth and pulls off the tape, strip by strip until the handgun hidden at the base of his spine is revealed.  
He yanks off the last of the tape, wincing a little, takes the gun back into the bedroom and shoves it into the bottom of his bag.  
The shower is brief and a little too hot, sluicing away the sweat and grime of the long drive. James dresses and towels his hair dry, and briefly thinks about hiding in his hotel for the whole weekend.  
He curses himself and runs his comb through his hair, scrubbing his fingers over the stubble on his cheeks thoughtfully. He decides against shaving, the fuzz enough to soften his features without making him look homeless or something.  
It takes a moment to screw up his courage and head out the door, swearing under his breath about getting it over with.

Nothing looks right.  
He walks through the streets, following his feet with no real destination in mind. There are some places he’s _not_ going to, all the hounds of hell baying at his heels kind of not going to.  
He moves with the crowds on the sidewalks, dragged along like flotsam, when did it get so damn crowded? And he’s pretty sure that someone is tailing him, though he can’t get a clear look at the guy. He slows his pace, taking his time and peering into the displays in the store windows, waiting to see how the tail will react.  
He doesn’t recognise any of the stores, but every other business seems to be some kind of coffeeshop. At least, that’s what he thinks they are, they could be anything, judging by the names and the random shit piled up in the windows.  
“Barnes?” a voice shouts from somewhere to his right. “Holy shit! Barnes is that you?”  
He turns, taking a step back in case he needs to book it, and a guy with a mess of dark hair and bags under his eyes lunges for him.  
It takes a second for James to put a name to the face. “Scott?”  
Scott grabs James by the forearms and grins in delight. “It is you! Damnit, Barnes, we thought you were, shit, abducted by aliens or something.”  
He looks so fucking happy, and James feels guilt uncoil in his guts, pushing up against his stomach hard enough to make him flinch.  
“No, no,” James shakes his head. Fuck, Scott had always been a good friend, kind of a flake but with a decent heart. “Nothing like that.”  
Scott doesn’t loosen his grip for a moment, and James tries not to wonder when someone last held him so tightly without trying to kill him, or at least rough him up a little.  
Scott’s expression sobers. “You been by your old house?”  
James nods ruefully. “Got gas from there.”  
He’d not meant to go looking for his childhood home, just driving around, lost in thought, and there it was. Not the house he grew up, that got bulldozed five or six years ago and had a gas station built over it.  
He still wasn’t sure how he felt about it. It’s not like he wanted to go back or anything.  
“Yeah,” Scott looks uncomfortable. “You didn’t try one of those microwave burritos, did you?”  
“That bad?”  
Scott nods furiously. “You here for the reunion?” James nods dumbly, and Scott lets out a happy little squeak. “Have you seen the old gang yet?”  
“Just got into town,” James fidgets in Scotts grasp. “So not yet.”  
“What about Mrs Carter?”  
James shakes his head again, reluctant to keep repeating himself.  
“You should,” Scott finally loosens his grip. “She’d love to see you.”  
“I don’t know, man.” James mumbles, but Scott sets his jaw in a way James hasn’t seen for over a decade.  
“Come on, my cars just around the corner. I can spare half an hour to take you there.”  
“What?” Okay, running away sounds like a pretty good idea. “Now?”  
“Sure, no time like the present. We can, y’know, catch up a little on the way?” Scott’s expression falters. “I let you wander off now, I might not see you for another ten years.”  
James winces, and Scott has the decency to look apologetic.

They walk down the block to where Scott is parked in awkward silence, giving each other nervous smiles along the way.  
“You were gonna study… engineering, right?” James offers as they climb into the car.  
“Electrical engineering, thats right. Computers,” Scott says helpfully, starting up the engine and pulling out into the traffic. “Code monkey, y’know?”  
James spots a photo tucked into the sun visor in front of him, and pulls it out. In the picture a pretty woman with long blonde hair is holding a little girl dressed up in a pink princess costume.  
“Are they… yours?” James blurts out.  
Scott looks too proud to question James’ poor choice of words. “That’s Maggie and our little girl Cassie.”  
“You’re married?” James takes a closer look at the picture. A birthday, shreds of brightly coloured wrapping paper scattered on the floor, chocolate frosting on the girl's fingers. “You?”  
“Yes, me.” He gives James a wounded look. “Come on, man.”  
“Sorry,” James mumbles, and pushes the picture back in its place, where Scott can see it.  
“What about you?” Scott asks. “You married? Kids?”  
James shakes his head, and stares out the window at the streets rolling past, familiar and strange.  
“Seriously?” Scott’s voice pitches up in surprise. “No one special?”  
James shifts in his seat. They’re not moving fast, Brooklyn traffic is another thing that’s gotten worse in ten years. He could crack open the passenger door and jump out, wouldn’t even have to duck and roll.  
“Okay, so…” Scott hums to himself. “What do you do for a living?”  
James stares at at the road ahead. “Professional killer,” he says flatly.  
“Oh.” For a minute Scott doesn’t make a sound. “So, what’s the health coverage like? You get dental?”  
The laugh bubbles up James' throat and slips out of his mouth before he realises it’s happening. He presses his lips together, touching his fingertip to his lower lip as Scott starts giggling at his side.  
“Shut up,” he mumbles, wrinkling up his nose, and Scott laughs even harder.  
“Alright, fine, don’t tell me. Be all mysterious.” Scott snorts and pulls up in front of a residential home. “Here we are.”  
James shudders, and Scott nods in sympathy.  
“You want me to hang around?”  
James shakes his head, and pushes the passenger door open. He hesitates before climbing out, and turns to Scott. “It’s good to see you, pal.”  
“You too,” Scott brightens up. “See you at the reunion, right?”  
James nods, and thanks him for the ride before climbing out. He watches the car pull away and disappear down the road before heading inside.

The staff at reception seem happy enough to let him in, and give vague directions to a dayroom before returning to work. James creeps silently along the hall, the plush carpet muffling his footsteps, until he reaches a brightly lit room filled with overstuffed armchairs.  
The residents, mostly women in their sixties and older, wander around, their features slack and expressionless. In the far corner a TV is on, the volume a little too high, playing a telenovela that the staff seem more interested in watching than their charges. In the furthest corner, a book in her lap, is Peggy Carter.  
Her dark hair is carefully curled into ringlets that frame her face, her lips painted cherry red to match her blouse.  
There it is, the bittersweet sting he had been missing in his return to Brooklyn.  
He walks softly across the floor, weaving around the empty chairs until he reaches her side, and shifts from foot to foot before clearing his throat.  
“Mrs Carter?”  
She looks up, a shaft of sunlight falling across her face, and breaks into a smile. “James!” she pats the empty seat next to here. “Come, let me look at you.”  
James sits down on command, keeping his back straight and his head high as Peggy looks him up and down.  
“Whatever happened to you, James?” she asks softly. “We thought you would go on to do great things, but you disappeared without a trace.”  
James bows his head and clasps his hands together. She had been his best teacher, encouraging where he needed support, and not afraid to kick his ass when he got lazy.  
“I had my money on Harvard, you know,” Peggy shakes her head. “The teachers had a betting pool.”  
James draws in a sharp breath. What can it hurt?  
“I joined the army,” he says quietly. “And I was really good at it. At killing people, I mean. I got loaned out to any government agency that needed someone taking out quickly and cleanly. After about five years I became an independent contractor.” He looks down at his hands. “I have an assistant, Natalia. You’d like her. She was a target, I was supposed to take her out, but I wound up giving her a job instead.”  
He looks up at Peggy, her red lips parted in a silent ‘oh’.  
“Was that in your betting pool?” he asks.  
“James, what-”  
Peggy coughs suddenly, covering her mouth with her hand. She gulps and coughs again, and James looks around, spotting a table with a jug of ice water and several glasses.  
“Hold on,” he murmurs, and gets up to pour her a glass, bringing it back to her seat and crouching down beside her. She takes it with trembling hands, sloshing a little as she raises it to her mouth, and James presses his fingers to the bottom of the glass, keeping it steady while she sips.  
Peggy gestures that she has had enough, and James puts the glass within reach while she pulls a napkin from her pocket and dabs her red lips.  
“You okay?” James asks, skimming the palm of his hand along her forearm, slow and reassuring.  
Peggy looks up at him, her eyes clouded. She blinks a couple of times and smiles.  
“James!”  
His heart sinks a little bit. It shouldn’t, but it does.  
“Hey, Mrs Carter,” he whispers, taking her hand in his.  
“You came back,” Peggy tightens her grip, her red painted nails digging into his palm. “Come here, let me look at you.”

The receptionist calls him a cab, and James slumps in the back seat, thumbing through his missed calls while the car inches along the busy streets. He brings up Natalia’s contact and taps on connect, pressing the phone to his ear and waiting. On the second ring, she answers.  
“How was the job?” Damn but she doesn’t waste any time.  
“Not done it yet,” James mutters, distracted. “Tomorrow.”  
Natalia is quiet for a long moment. “How does it look?”  
James thinks of the unopened file stuffed in the bottom of his bag. “Fine. It’s fine.”  
“So, you’re just taking your time? Being a professional?”  
“I am a professional,” James scowls. “It’ll get done, alright? Quit bothering me.”  
“You called me.”  
James rubs his eyes with a knuckle. “Alright, I’m sorry.” He waits for a response, but the line is silent. “Can you find out who else is in town? I’ve got a tail, so if this job has been double-booked or someone wants to kill me, I’d like to know about it.”  
“I’ll take care of it, sir.”  
“Thank you.”  
Natalia hesitates. “Are you okay?”  
“I’m fine.”  
“You don’t seem fine. You haven't seemed fine since Nicaragua.”  
“Nat, I’m _fine_.”  
“Is it the job? Is it getting to you?”  
James ends the call and shoves the phone in his pocket.  
Fuck.  
“I need coffee,” he says to himself.  
“Say what?” the cab driver calls over his shoulder.  
James sits forward in his seat. “I need coffee. Take me to coffee.”  
The driver snorts, and indicates to change lanes. “Sure thing.”

The driver kicks him out in front of one of the dingy little hipster bars that Brooklyn seems to be filled with these days, promising the ‘best damn cold brew you ever tasted’.  
James glares at the cab as it disappears into traffic, before turning his ire on the bar itself. Falcon’s, what the fuck kind of name is that for a coffee shop.  
Inside it’s clean and well-lit, with framed pictures of helicopters and pararescue teams. There is a menu written on a chalkboard hanging above the counter, the lower half of it taken up with the bar's fundraising efforts for air rescue and support teams.  
James relaxes a little. He’d worked with Pararescue a few times back in his army days, decent people working hard to make a difference, all of them the special kind of crazy it takes to throw yourself out of a plane on a semi-regular basis.  
“You gonna stand around there all day, man, or are you gonna order?” a sharp voice snaps James out of his reverie.  
He looks to the speaker, and takes in the name tag pinned to his red and black shirt.  
“Sorry, uh, Sam.” James gives him a quick smile. “I was just… Were you in the Air Force?”  
“Damn right I was. Air National Guard 58th Rescue Squadron,” Sam folds his arms across his chest.  
“Those EXO-7 guys?” James grins.  
Sam nods, the line of his shoulders settling. “You military?”  
“Was,” James shrugs. “Was in the army. 107th Infantry.”  
“Oh, a local boy,” Sam smiles, “You back for the reunion?”  
“Something like that.” James’ mouth twist up. “How’s retirement?”  
“Pretty great,” Sam looks around the bar. “Don’t get shot at so much, and nobody’s giving me orders all the damn time.”  
“Sounds nice,” James murmurs, almost to himself.  
“Well, you gotta do what makes you happy, right?” Sam reaches out to get a clean mug from the stack behind him. “And after four tours I swore I would never subject myself to bad coffee again.”  
James coughs out a laugh, and Sam chuckles along with him.  
“It’s the little things gonna get your ass through the day,” He pours himself a filter coffee. “What you drinking?”  
James looks up at the menu again. “I don’t know. What’s good?”  
“It’s all good,” Sam snorts. “Go sit your ass down, I’ll send something over. You better pray it’s not some pink glittery unicorn frappe.”  
James laughs again, and this time it comes a little easier. He gives Sam a nod and goes off to find a seat.  
There is a table in a far corner, where he can tuck himself away with his back to the wall and a clear view of the door. He makes himself comfortable, pulling out his phone and checking for any new messages.  
He hears the rattle of crockery as a staff member brings him whatever coffee Sam has deemed appropriate, and glances up.  
It was inevitable, really. You can’t expect to come breezing back into town and not bump into old friends, or enemies, or-  
“Bucky?”  
-or the long lost love of your life.

Steve fucking Rogers. Every cliche about short people and bad tempers packed into five feet and loose change. Ten years have barely touched him. His blond hair still scruffy and sticking up in every direction, a nervous habit of tugging it when he’s stressed that James also picked up somewhere around Iraq.  
Steve sets down a cup of Americano in front of him, his hand shaking hard enough to make the cup rattle in its saucer.  
James gets up, jostling the table with his hip, and runs his hands through his hair.  
“Yes. Uh. Yes,” he stammers. “Hi.”  
Steve doesn’t move, and James can hear the clatter of his phone dropping to the table. Had he still been holding it?  
“So… how have you been?”  
Steve screws up his face and lurches forward, and James braces himself for a punch in the teeth. Steve reaches up and grabs him by his shirt, and pulls him into a kiss.  
It’s terrible. Their teeth clack together and Steve’s nose jabs into James’ cheek as he bullies his way into James’ mouth, his tongue stiff and aggressive, his fingers digging into the hard muscle of James’ shoulders. James flaps his hands in midair, torn between grabbing Steve by the waist and pulling him closer and…  
Before James can make any kind of decision Steve wrenches away and takes a step back. He touches the back of his hand to his mouth, like he hadn’t been the one to launch himself at some poor unsuspecting fucker without warning. He looks shocked. Not repulsed, or angry, or like he’s gonna throw a punch. James suspects there’s a similar look on his own face.  
“You’re not dead,” Steve whispers, his voice low and roughened.  
James swallows, Steve’s voice had always done things to him. How could he have forgotten? Forgotten the shape of his hands and the quirk of his mouth and the way he kissed like he was starting a brawl.  
“You… you look good, Stevie,” James says softly.  
That seems to snap Steve out of his fugue, and he reaches into his pocket and pulls out a phone, turning on his camera.  
“Oh, hey wait,” Bucky holds his hands up, maneuvering around Steve and edging back towards the main bar. Photos are not good. Evidence, stamped with a time and date, not the kind of thing a man in his line of work wants happening.  
Steve sets his jaw and glares. And yeah, James wasn’t forgetting the Rogers death glare any time soon.  
He lowers his hands, and gives the camera his most unimpressed look as Steve takes the shot. It’s worth it for the way he smiles when he looks at the picture.  
“I gotta go back to work,” Steve says abruptly, and pushes past him towards the bar without a backwards glance.  
“Steve?” James watches him thread through the crowd, and chews his lip. There is a lingering taste of coffee in his mouth. He looks down at his table, where his Americano sits next to his phone, and thinks about leaving. Going back to his hotel, getting his bag and his gun and leaving.  
He sighs and sits back down, pulling the cup towards him. 

The coffee is good, and James sips it while he checks his messages. Natalia sends him details of a couple of jobs, both of which he rejects, and tries not to think too hard about how she will react.  
He’s on edge, his skin prickling, the fine hairs at the nape of his neck itching against the collar of his shirt. He tries to breathe normally, how do people breathe? What’s a normal amount of time between breathing in and out? His fingers return to his mouth over and over again, scraping across the stubble of his chin and the swell of his lower lip. The kiss echoes in the taste of cooling coffee, the press of his thumb against his teeth.  
The shrill scrape of chair against polished floor nearly makes him bite through his thumb, and he snaps his head up, mouth open and ready to let loose a few choice curses. Opposite him, Steve sits down heavily and puts a mug of coffee on the table between them with an overloud thump.  
“I’m on break,” he says, fixing James with a hard stare. “You’ve got five minutes.”  
James breathes in sharply through his nose. Five seconds. Is five seconds between breaths too much or not enough? Okay, he can be an adult, he knows six ways to kill a man with a ballpoint pen, he can have a rational conversation. Steve is staring at him expectantly. Say something damnit.  
“What do you want to talk about?”  
Steve makes a point of umming and ahhing before getting to the point. No wonder the little shit spent so much of High School getting beat on, though back then it was James pulling him out of trouble, not being the target of his anger.  
“Let’s see, let’s see,” Steve looks up at the ceiling, brushing his fingers along his throat. “Two guys, best friends since childhood, decide to go to prom together, since one of them can’t get a date.”  
“That’s not why I asked,” James utters softly.  
“No, it wasn’t,” Steve concedes. “It’s not until after, when he’s trashed on his dad’s stolen whisky, that he confesses.”  
“Steve, don’t.” Bucky wants to reach across the table, take Steve’s hands in his. “Please don’t.”  
“They sleep together, drunk and stupid and full of big plans. And in the morning, one of them is gone. No note, no explanations. Ten years and nothing.” Steve tips his head to one side. “You wanna tell me what happened?”  
James bites his lip hard enough to make it bleed, and tastes copper pennies. “I think that is gonna take longer than five minutes.”  
Steve seems to deflate a little. “We were gonna go see the Grand Canyon.”  
“Yeah,” James nods. “Then come back and find a place in Williamsburg. You were gonna be a famous artist.”  
Steve fiddles with his coffee cup. “Yeah, because there’s a shortage of that kind of thing in New York.”  
“Do you still paint?” James asks. He wants to know more, wants to know everything Steve has done in the last decade, but doesn't know how to ask, how far he can push before Steve just gets up and walks away.  
“A little,” Steve shrugs. “It’s all in storage right now. Had some problems with my old landlord so I’m staying at Tony’s until I find a new place.”  
“Tony?” James sits up a little. “Tony Stark? He’s still in town? I figured he’d live on Mars or something by now!”  
“Give him time.” Steve smiles, just a little. “He’s in clean energy these days, the stuff he comes out with, I can’t even pretend to understand it.”  
“Yeah, I heard he quit the family business.” James prods at the scratch on his lip with his tongue. “Caused a bit of a ruckus.”  
“That’s putting it mildly.” Steve takes a sip of coffee. “He’s still getting shit for it.”  
“That’s good, though,” James risks reaching out to touch the lip of Steve’s cup. “Good that he’s looking out for you.”  
Steve nods, tracing his own fingertip around the base of the cup. “I should get back to work,” he murmurs, and it sounds reluctant.  
James resists the urge to grab his hand, but when Steve moves to take his cup, he closes his hand over Steve’s wrist and tugs, very gently. “When do you get off work?”  
Steve snorts. “Why, you asking me out?”  
“Yes,” James says, the word slipping out of his mouth unbidden. Damn traitorous tongue.  
It’s true, though. He can’t argue with that.  
“What?” Steve looks down at James’ hand on his. “You gonna take me to a fancy restaurant?”  
“If that’s what you want,” James stares at him, though Steve won't meet his eye. “Or we can just get a drink. Talk.”  
“Talk?”  
James nods fervently, and Steve pulls out of his hold and turns away.  
Fuck.  
“Howlies,” Steve says without turning back. “Eight o’clock.” and he’s gone before James can say another word.

*

James finds the least insufferable looking burger joint and orders himself a burger and fries. He can almost hear Nat’s lecture on healthy eating as he places his order, and tries to quell the lingering guilt with a side of extra dill pickle. It’s green, it’s gotta count, and ketchup is basically a vegetable.  
He hides himself in the darkest corner with his bottle of soda, keeping one eye on the door as he checks his phone.  
Missed call from Nat, she probably knows about the burger, damn her.  
James taps on the callback symbol and holds the phone up to his ear. It rings twice before she picks up.  
“Nat, what you got?”  
“Hey, you’re not dead,” Natalia sounds relieved.  
“Not yet,” James takes a sip of soda. “Should I be?”  
“Took some digging, but yeah.” James can hear a voice in the background that sounds suspiciously like arrow guy.  
“Are you in the middle of something?” James’ voice pitches up in surprise. “Do you have company?!”  
“Yes,” Natalia snaps. In the background he can just make out arrow guy calling hello. “Clint, shut up and hand me that file.”  
A member of staff comes over to James table with his burger, and unceremoniously dumps it in front of him. The burger looks good, though it’s served on what looks like a chopping board, laid with a sheet of greaseproof paper. Next to it the fries are arranged in a terracotta plant pot. The ketchup he’d asked for has been spread across the paper with what looks like a paintbrush, and the dill pickles have been battered and deep fried before being arranged in a little jenga tower.  
“Fucking hipsters,” James mutters, and pulls out the skewer holding the burger together.  
“You’ve got a contract out on you,” Nat announces, and James takes a bite out of his burger. “Picked up by this guy Brock Rumlow. High School footballer, blew out his knee in a game, so decided to switch careers and joined Strike. You know him?”  
“The mercenaries?” James swallows and puts down his burger long enough to take a sip of soda. “Doesn’t ring a bell.”  
“The Lemurian Star hijacking?”  
“Nope,” James takes another bite of burger.  
“Stole a biological agent from the Institute of Infectious Diseases in Lagos?”  
“Oh yeah,” James says, his mouth full. “He’s an asshole, calls himself Crossbones.”  
“That’s the guy,” Natalia confirms. “And he’s coming after you. So you’re getting out of town, right? Like tonight?”  
James swallows and shifts the phone to his other ear. “The job isn’t done yet.”  
Natalia makes a soft, guttural sound. “Sir?”  
“It’s fine, I’ll take care of it tomorrow.”  
“Sir, you’re making me worry. I don’t like when you make me worry.”  
James closes his eyes. “Natalia,” he says softly. “It’s fine. I promise.”  
He ends the call when she doesn’t argue further, and eats the rest of his burger in silence.

*

James spends far too much time in his hotel room fretting about what to wear, and in the end sticks with what he knows, black t-shirt and jeans.  
His bag sits on his unmade bed, the contents spilled out across the rumpled duvet. James glares at the dossier poking out from under his clean shirts and shoves everything back into the bag and zipping it up.  
The bag seems to squat on the mattress like a toad, silent and disapproving, so Bucky knocks it to the floor and kicks it under the bed.  
Howlies is a pub around the corner from Sam’s place, run by an old guy with a huge gingery mustache that makes him look like a walrus.  
There’s no sign of Steve, and James checks his watch. He orders a beer and picks a booth in a corner where he can see all the entry points, and tries not to count the minutes ticking past.  
It could be payback. Steve could be at home right now, laughing his ass off at the thought of James waiting for him to show. He could be across the street, seeing how long it takes for him to give up and leave.  
James sniffs and tugs at the loose corner on the label of his beer.  
“That’s a sign of sexual frustration, you know.”  
“Fuck,” James blurts out, jostling his beer bottle enough to make foam swell up the neck and mushroom over the mouth. And that’s an image that doesn’t help matters. He glares up at Steve, standing by his table with a smirk on his face. “Are you a fucking ninja or something?”  
Steve chuckles and sits down opposite him, setting down his bottle of ginger ale on the table between them.  
“Hey, Buck,” he murmurs. He looks good, his hair still damp from a shower, and changed out of his work clothes and into a loose fitting shirt.  
James doesn’t trust his idiot mouth, so raises his beer in greeting and takes a sip.  
“You wanted to talk?” Steve raises his eyebrows. “So talk.”  
The beer sours in his mouth, and James chokes it down. “Okay, so tell me about yourself. How have you been?”  
Steve shakes his head. “You first.”  
“Come on, Stevie,” James sighs, but he sits back in his seat and fixes James with an expectant glare.  
Fuck.

“I freaked out,” James says slowly. “I woke up and I… freaked out. I know it doesn’t make much sense, and I went about it all wrong.”  
“No, it doesn’t make sense,” Steve snaps.  
James falls silent and waits for him to continue. Steve takes a deep breath, and for the moment holds his tongue, gesturing for James to continue.  
“I joined the army.” James peels off a strip of beer label rather than look at Steve. “I didn’t plan it. It wasn’t some… grand scheme. I just. It was a thing I had to do.”  
“Do you have any idea how crazy that sounds?” Steve sits forward in his seat. “I thought you’d been murdered, or hurt or abducted by one of those psychos you read about that keep people locked in their basements for thirty years.”  
“Sorry,” James whispers.  
Steve rests his elbows on the table. He still looks pissed, looks wounded. “So what was it like? You must have stories.”  
“Bad,” James mumbles, and tears off another strip of label. “It was very bad.”  
“But you met interesting people?”  
“Bad people.”  
“And that’s it?” Steve sits up straighter. “That’s ten years.”  
James rubs his hands over his face and sighs. “I joined the army. And my psychiatric evaluation revealed a certain… moral flexibility. I got loaned out to different programs that required my.” Fuck, why was this so hard to say? “Specialised skillset. After a few years I became an independant contractor. I didn’t like not having a say in what I did.”  
“And what is it that you do,” Steve asks.  
James lowers his hands, and looks Steve in the eye. “Professional killer.”  
“Riiight.” Steve scrunches up his nose. “You used catch spiders and toss them out the window, Buck.”  
“Spiders aren’t druglords or despots, Steve,” James frowns to himself. “They ain’t hurting anybody.”  
“They’re hurting flies.”  
“Fuck flies.”  
Steve stares at him for a moment, and then bursts out laughing, pressing his hand to his chest and bending almost double.  
He pulls himself together, straightening up and rubbing his eyes with the back of his hand.  
“I’m sorry,” James says. “I’m sorry I didn’t call. I tried to write, I must’ve written you a hundred different letters.”  
Steve’s expression softens. “What did they say?”  
The corner of James’ mouth twitches down, and he clenches his teeth.  
“Come on, Buck,” Steve’s voice is low, barely audible. “What did they say.”  
“You know, the usual.” James rubs his lower lip. “That I was sorry. That I love you. That you’re better off without me.”  
He picks up his bottle and drains it, rather than look at Steve. “I’m getting another drink. You want another drink?” he asks, a little too loudly.  
Steve shakes his head, and Bucky gets up to go to the bar. Steve grabs him by the wrist and pulls him back.  
“Come on, sit down,” Steve says, and James has never been much good at saying no to him. He sits, and takes some comfort in the way Steve keeps a hold of his arm.  
“So what else?” Steve asks, keeping his voice light.  
“What? That’s it. There’s nothing else.”  
“Come on,” Steve rubs his thumb along the thin skin of Bucky’s wrist, feeling his rabbit-fast pulse. “You ever get married? Have kids?”  
“Fuck, no, nothing like that.” James risks a quick glance at him. “You?”  
“No,” Steve shakes his head. “Nothing really stuck, you know?”  
Relief washes over James, and it’s enough to make him feel dizzy. He gives Steve a careful, cautious smile, and his heart kicks and thumps in his chest when it is returned.  
Where was it? Nicaragua? Guatemala? Chasing a target across an open field, until the poor bastard took a wrong step. A loud bang and a shower of dirt, and no more target, just chunks of bone and gristle. And James in the middle of an unmarked Cold War minefield, searching the ground in the fading light for a clear path.  
He feels an odd sense of deja vu.  
“You going to the reunion?” James asks. “I could pick you up at seven?”  
Steve huffs. “I forgot how fucking annoying you are.”  
“Safety in numbers,” James adds. “If Hodge tries to stick your head down the toilet again I’ll be there to kick his ass. I kill people for a living, I can make it look like an accident.”  
“Bucky,” Steve tightens his grip around James’ wrist.  
“Seriously, I can make it look like auto-erotic axphyxiation or something.”  
Steve chuckles and shakes his head. “You are such a jerk.”  
“And you’re a punk,” James twists his hand and links their fingers together. “What d’you say?”  
Steve looks down at their joined hands. “I’ll think about it.”

Steve finishes his soda, and without explanation gets up, pulling James with him. They walk out of the bar and onto the street, and their intertwined fingers feels familiar and strange.  
They stop in front of a vintage Harley, and Steve gives James a sly grin. James looks between Steve and the bike a couple of times before swearing loudly.  
“Is this your fucking bike?”  
“It’s my fucking bike,” Steve laughs.  
James reaches out and touches the saddle. Steve had been dirt poor growing up, and worked three jobs for a whole damn year to buy that fucking bike, James had lived in fear of Steve breaking his damn neck. Being in love with your best friend is one thing, riding pillion with his ass basically in your lap is a whole other realm of torture.  
Steve opens up one of the panniers strapped to the bike and pulls out a crash helmet. He tosses it to James, who manages to grab it without fumbling. Steve takes one out of the other pannier and throws his leg over the seat, getting comfortable and looking over expectantly.  
The helmet fits, and James fastens the buckle under his chin before mounting behind Steve. He reaches back to the grab rail behind him, and can practically hear Steve’s complaining as he grabs James wrist again and places his hand firmly on his hip. He pats it once, emphasising his point, and returns his grip to the handlebars.  
Steve is warm and solid under James’ hands, and he brushes the tip of his thumb under Steve’s t-shirt, his pale skin smooth and familiar.  
Steve leans into the touch a little before starting the engine and guiding the bike into traffic.  
The journey passes in a blur as James works his hands under Steve’s shirt, inch by precarious inch. He slides his palms across Steve’s stomach, drawing abstract patterns on his navel, slowly working his way down. At the next stop light Steve shifts back and forth, pressing rhythmically onto James’ slowly thickening cock.  
James groans, low in his throat. That sneaky little shit. He keeps one hand pressed to Steve’s belly and works the other one up to his chest, and slowly swipes his thumb across a peaked nipple.  
Steve twitches, and the light turns green. James pulls his hand down again, returning it to Steve’s waist.

Tony insists on living in Manhattan, and by the time Steve pulls up outside the apartment, James has got himself quite comfortable, one hand tucked under the waistband of Steve’s pants, the other splayed across his ribs. He’s hard, but not painfully so, his cock pressed snugly against the base of Steve’s spine.  
Steve pulls off his helmet and taps Bucky on the thigh. He grumbles a little, riding without a jacket is fucking cold, and Steve is pleasantly warm against him.  
“Come on, Buck,” Steve laughs, and gently extricates himself from James’ arms.  
James unclips the helmet and pulls it off, shaking out his long hair and running his fingers through it, teasing out the tangles. He looks up to see Steve watching him, something fragile in his expression.  
“What?” James asks.  
“Nothing,” Steve shakes his head. “Just… it’s nothing.”  
He takes the helmet from James’ hands and packs it away with his own. “Tony’s down at his workshop tonight,” Steve says suddenly, and without further explanation starts walking to the entrance.  
James watches him striding away, and can’t help but smile. “You’re nervous,” he says slowly.  
“What?” Steve turns around to glare at him. “No I’m not. Fuck off.”  
James follows him into the lobby, and sidles up beside him as he presses the call button for the elevator.  
“Stevie,” James murmurs.  
“Alright, fine. Yes. I’m fucking nervous,” Steve snaps. “It’s been a while, okay?”  
The elevator doors open, and they step inside. Steve jabs the button for his floor, and folds his arms across his chest.  
James waits for the door to close, and moves behind Steve, wrapping an arm around his waist and brushing a kiss on the nape of his neck. Steve sighs and lets his head drop, and James kisses the juncture between his neck and shoulder. He pulls a little skin between his teeth and nibbles, and Steve reaches up to thread fingers through James’ hair, pulling him closer.  
The elevator doors slide open and they fall out into the corridor, stumbling along the plush carpet until they reach Tony’s apartment. Steve fumbles for his keys, one hand still fisted in James’ hair, holding him in place while he sucks on Steve’s earlobe.  
They manage to get through the door, James kicking it shut as Steve slaps the switch on the wall, flooding the room with light. Steve twists around in James’ arms and kisses him, rough and deep and bruising, walking him across the floor in the general direction of the guest room.  
“Love what you’ve done with the place,” James manages to catch a breath as Steve shoves him through the doorway. Steve glares at him and kicks off his boots.

His room is cluttered, and Steve seems to be living out of bags, but there is a bed and James sits down on one corner and unlaces his shoes. Steve has the decency to wait until he has taken them off before climbing onto the bed with him and straddling his lap.  
James curls his hands around Steve’s hips, holding him steady, and Steve pushes his fingers into James’ hair, twisting the strands around his fingers. “You’ll still be be here when I wake up, right?”  
James nods, and Steve bends down to kiss him, one soft press of lips after another.  
James pushes up Steve’s shirt, splaying his fingers across his ribs and moving up until Steve stops kissing him long enough to let James take off his shirt. It drops to the floor and James returns his hands to Steve’s back, tracing the notches in his spine and licking into his open mouth.  
“Wait,” Steve gasps, breaking the kiss and turning his face away.  
“I’m sorry.” Panic washes over James and he withdraws, his hands hovering over Steve’s shoulders, not daring to touch him. “Too fast?”  
Steve nods, holding his hands close to his chest, his eyes cast down.  
“It’s okay, we can stop,” James moves, trying to push Steve off his lap, but he won’t shift.  
“Something,” Steve shakes his head. “Something I need to do.”  
James looks up at him, and Steve grins suddenly, balls up his fist and punches him.  
It’s not the hardest hit to the mouth James has ever received. It’s enough to snap his head back, but doesn’t bust his lip, and Steve at least avoided his nose.  
“Fuck,” he gasps, rubbing his mouth. His lips sting a little and his teeth ache. “You little shit.”  
Steve giggles and pats James on the cheek. “Yup. That was it.”

James growls and wraps his arms around Steve’s waist again, pulling him down onto the bed. Steve lets out a yelp, throwing out his hands to catch himself on the mattress. He laughs again, low and throaty. James curses and rolls them both over, pinning Steve to the bed and kissing him, a hard press of lips against his smiling mouth.  
Steve takes advantage of the change in position to pull at James’ shirt, twisting and stretching the fabric until James strips it off and throws it over his shoulder, not caring where it lands.  
James works his way down Steve’s body, relearning the places he likes to be touched, where to kiss gently and where to apply teeth, and Steve writhes underneath him, his pale skin damp with sweat.  
When James reaches the waistband of Steve’s jeans he presses his cheek to the hard length there, breath coming in short bursts as he unfastens each button of his fly and pulls down the zipper. Underneath are plain white briefs pulled taut over his cock, the cloth saturated where it's stretched over the head.  
James presses his tongue to the wetness, catching the faintest taste of musk and salt, and Steve tips back his head and moans, his hips twitching up seeking contact.  
James drags Steve’s jeans down to his thighs, and mouths at his clothed cock, the cotton rough on his tongue and soaking up his spit.  
“Jesus, Buck,” Steve pants, and wraps his slender fingers around the curve of Bucky’s skull, drawing his nails against James’ scalp.  
The briefs stick a little as James peels them back, Steve’s cock proud and twitching as he cups his hand around his balls, drawing his thumb across the wrinkled skin and squeezing gently. With every breath that gusts over the head Steve lets out a soft, choked sound, and James takes a moment to savour it.  
The last time they had been like this they had been drunk, fumbling in the dark and frantic, and James is determined to treasure every moment. He takes the time to strip off Steve’s jeans and take in the sight of him stretched out across the bed, loose limbed and laughing, before positioning himself between his bent knees. He curls his arms around Steve’s thighs, pulling him into position. Steve’s slim hips fit perfectly in the cradle of his hands as he bends down and licks a long, wet stripe up his cock, drawing his tongue slowly from ballsack to the crown. Steve moans, low and loud, and James flicks his tongue over the head, dipping it into the slit. Steve’s hips twitch up reflexively, and James tightens his grip on his waist before taking the head into his mouth.  
Steve curses breathlessly, his fingers spasming in James hair every time he wraps his sucks. James teases a little, tonguing at the slit and kissing the head, and underneath him Steve kicks and whines, digging his heels into the mattress for leverage and trying to push himself into James mouth.  
“Patience,” James says softly, the wet pucker of his lips teasing but offering no relief.  
“Fuck,” Steve snaps, and moans again.  
James takes a few deep breaths before wrapping his lips around the head and swallowing. He presses down, the thick shaft sliding against his tongue, and Steve kicks and thrusts with a shout. James pulls back enough to breathe before sinking down again, his nose brushing the dark, wiry hair at the base of Steve’s cock. The weight of Steve on his tongue, the taste of seminal fluid in the back of his throat, is nothing short of bliss, and he swallows down as much as he can. Spit gathers in his mouth, trickling out the corners and slicking down Steve’s length.  
Steve tightens his grip on James’ hair and pulls, not the twitchy, erratic tug of before, but something more insistent. James works his tongue against the thick ridge on the underside of Steve’s cock and Steve comes with a shout.  
James pulls back enough to swallow comfortably, his mouth still closed around the crown, and bobs his head, the last of Steve’s release dribbling onto his tongue. Steve’s hands in his hair gentle, and he lets his mouth go slack, feeling a moment of loss as Steve’s softening cock slips free.

James climbs up the bed to Steve’s side and is dragged into a kiss, their teeth clacking together with the urgency of it. James brushes his thumb along Steve’s sharp cheekbones, soothing and tender as he slows down the kiss, drawing it out into something sweeter and deeper and lingering.  
Steve pushes his hand down the front of James’ pants and palms his cock, hard and woefully neglected until now. James reaches down to unfasten his jeans, pushing them down to give Steve room to move, and sighs into his mouth. Steve moves slowly, paying as much care to the way his tongue traces the back of James’ teeth as he does to the way he strokes his cock. He rubs his thumb against the crown, pressing down on the knot of sensitive skin just below the flared head. It’s a little too dry, a little too rough, but it’s Steve.  
James thrusts up into his fist, losing whatever rhythm he had in the chase for more. More contact, more heat, more of the way Steve opens up to him and welcomes him in.  
He comes, spilling on Steve’s stomach, and whatever sounds he makes are swallowed up in Steve’s kisses, sweet and prolific and far more than he deserves.


	3. You Got Some Weird Kinks, Rogers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tony drains his glass and reaches for the bottle on the coffee table. “So what have you been doing all this time? Sex? Drugs? Indoctrinated into a cult.”  
> James shakes his head. “Professional killer.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here it is, folks!  
> Thank you to Cabloom for the original prompt, I hope you like where it ended up!  
> Thanks to the Buttaneers for being no end of trouble  
> Special thanks to Eidheann for hauling herself out of the plague pit to knock the words into shape  
> You can find me on [Tumblr](http://thelittleblackfox.tumblr.com)

James wakes up first, a few hours before dawn, Steve wrapped around him like a blanket made of jabbing knees and elbows. He stretches as best as he can, and slowly works his way out from under the covers. It takes a few minutes to find all his clothes, creeping about the room trying to find socks and underwear, and getting dressed as quietly as he can.  
He sits at the edge of the bed and pulls on his shoes, tugging the laces tight and tying them before crawling up the bed and lying down beside Steve, still fast asleep.  
He still snores in his sleep, soft little huffs and grunts, his eyes twitching back and forth under his lids.  
“Stevie,” James whispers, drawing a thumb along the curve of his ear. “Wake up.”  
Steve grimaces, and cracks one eye open. He makes a garbled little sound and screws his eye shut again.  
“I’m not running,” James says slowly, and Steve eyes snap open. He takes in the sight of James fully dressed and frowns.  
“You look like you’re running,” he mumbles. “Why are you up?”  
“I got some stuff to take care of.” James moves his thumb down to the delicate skin behind Steve’s ear, gently brushing back and forth.  
“What’re you gonna do, walk back to Brooklyn?” Steve starts to sit up. “I’ll give you a ride.”  
“No no no,” James pushes him back down onto the bed. He goes quietly for once.  
James folds his arms on the mattress and rests his head on his hands. “I’ve been thinking.”  
“Ugh,” Steve pulls the duvet over his head. “Stop talking.”  
James pulls the covers back, just enough to see Steve’s face. “I’ve been thinking. We should go away. I mean together. You an’ me.”  
“Go?” Steve rubs his eyes. “Go where?”  
“Anywhere,” James says. “Just you and me. Spend a bit of time, I don’t know, reconnecting. Something like that. Go see the places we always wanted to see.”  
Steve breathes out, slow and heavy. “What about work?”  
“You can take time off, right? And if you can’t, well, just find another job after.”  
“You’re serious,” Steve realises. James nods. “Okay.”  
“Great,” James bounces to his feet. “Okay, so I’m thinking I’ll pick you up at seven for the reunion. Sound good?”  
Steve mumbles an agreement, still waking up, and watches James go for the door. “Wait a minute, it’s like five in the morning, you can’t go out like that.”  
James looks down at himself. His t-shirt is wrinkled but unstained and his jeans seem fine. “What?”  
“It’s cold out.”  
“What, you my mother?” James snorts.  
Steve huffs and climbs out of bed. He is still wonderfully naked, and James seriously debates dragging him back into bed. The view of Steve’s backside as he rummages through one of his bags of clothes doesn’t help his resolve.  
“Here,” Steve holds out a bundle of denim. “This should still fit.”  
“Is that…” James hesitates before reaching out for the bundle. “That’s my jacket.”  
His denim jacket. He loved that fucking thing, wore it every damn day.  
“You left it,” Steve seems to realise that he’s undressed and grabs a clean t-shirt. “When you… left.”  
James watches him pull on the t-shirt and search for a clean pair of pants. “You kept it.”  
“‘Course I fucking kept it,” Steve grumbles, getting dressed. “It was yours.”  
James bites his lip. “Come here.”  
Steve huffs, but shuffles into James waiting arms, and lets himself be held. He curls his fingers in James hair and pulls him down for a kiss, deep and dirty, and over far too soon. Steve hums in pleasure and pulls away with a last kiss to the corner of James mouth, as if for emphasis.  
“See you at seven, then?”  
James nods dumbly, and Steve gives him a last, lingering kiss before shoving him away. James knows better than to argue, and mumbles a goodbye before heading for the door.  
“Bucky?” Steve calls.  
He turns around, pushing his hand through his hair, and hears the click of Steve’s phone as he takes a picture. He pulls a silly face, and Steve chuckles and takes another shot.

Despite the early hour the streets are still busy, and James manages to flag down a cab. He gives the address of his hotel and takes a seat, checking through his phone for messages. He taps on Natalia’s number and waits for the call to connect.  
“Sir?” she sounds relieved. “Still not dead.”  
“Nope,” James glances up at the driver, who doesn’t seem to be paying attention.  
“What do you need?” Nat gets straight to the point.  
“Wind down operations,” James says. “I want the office cleared out by morning.”  
Nat takes the news with brisk efficiency. “Going underground? Setting up a new firm?”  
“Nothing like that,” James smiles to himself. “Retiring.”  
“You finished the job?”  
“Not yet,” James sighs. “I’ll get it done, quit worrying.”  
“Mr Cross is very unhappy about the delay.”  
“Well, I’d offer Mr Cross a refund, but since he didn’t pay for this job…”  
“He can go fuck himself?”  
James can hear the smile in her voice. “He can go fuck himself.”  
“No problem, Sir. I’ll get shredding.”  
“Thanks.” James looks out the window, at the world passing by. “I’m going away for a couple of weeks, but after that I’ll come find you.”  
He can hear a soft exhale. “Sir?” she asks warily.  
“Nothing like that,” James says in a rush. “Just. There’s someone I want you to meet.”  
“No problem.” Nat’s voice drops a little. “Glad you’re getting out.”  
“One more thing,” James adds before she hangs up. “Check under my desk.”  
“Why?”  
“Just do it, alright?” James laughs. “You’ll need to reach right under.”  
There is a thump and rustle, and the sound of ripping tape, much like an overworked PA pulling a plastic wrapped brick of a few hundred thousand dollars in non sequential bills out of its hiding place.  
Natalia curses softly. “That’s fifty percent of the profits, Nat. You earned it.”  
He hangs up before she starts screaming, and shoves the phone in his jacket pocket.

*

Holy Cross Cemetery is less than a half hour drive from the hotel, even with Brooklyn traffic.  
James drives through the brownstone arch entrance, and makes his way slowly down the drive. There are neat rows of trees lining the road, obscuring the view of the gravestones beyond. He parks up and puts his phone on silent before grabbing the bottle of Bushmills on the passenger seat, and goes in search of his parents.  
The graves are arranged in neat rows, the headstones set back to back in different shapes and sizes like rows of crooked teeth. He finds his mother and father, planted side by side.  
Mom he barely remembers, not when she was well. He remembers the knitted caps she wore to hide the effects of chemo and the way her hands twisted into claws, her skin paper thin.  
For all his talk about his son being a burden, Dad didn’t last long after James took off.  
James unscrews the bottle of whisky and drops the cap on the ground. He upends the bottle and watches in silence as the liquor soaks into the ground, the smell of it pungent and sour. He drops the bottle on his grave and shakes off the drops of whisky clinging to his fingers.  
He had spent a long time thinking about what he would say to his Dad, given the chance. In the end the truth was he would say nothing, the old bastard wouldn't listen to him anyway.  
He walks back to his car, and drives into town in search of something to eat.

It shouldn’t be this hard to find breakfast.  
James has been walking around long enough to consider upgrading from breakfast to lunch. There are places that just sell toast, with names like ‘Munch’ and ‘Eat’. There’s a place that sells cereal by the fucking bowl.  
James glares through another window, there is no way on earth he’s eating a burger made out of waffles. Or a whole cauliflower.  
He sends a text begging for help to Steve, who laughs his ass off and directs him to a pizza joint that looks like it was built by settlers on the frickin’ Mayflower.  
James slides into one of the booths and orders a slice and a soda. His phone starts playing the Imperial March and he swears under his breath.  
“Alexander,” he mutters, peering through the window by his booth. Where is that wrinkly fucker?  
“James,” Pierce shouts with forced cheer. “Where are you?”  
“Siberia,” James answers. “You should come over.”  
“Another time, perhaps.”  
There he is. James can see him across the street. Smug old bastard. Pierce snaps his phone shut, because of course he insists on using a clamshell, and slips it into the breast pocket of his suit. He checks both ways before crossing the street, and strides into the diner like he owns the place. James glowers at him when he slips into the seat opposite.  
“Fancy seeing you here,” Pierce’s smile is sharp and too bright.  
“Small world,” James agrees.  
Alexander rests his elbows on the table between them, clasping his hands together and looking for all the world like a concerned parent with his wayward son.  
“I like you James,” Pierce confides. “And I feel I have been very generous in my offer.”  
“Generous?” James huffs. “Is that why you ordered a hit on me?” Pierce’s expression sours. “Yeah, I know about Rumlow.”  
“You’re very astute,” he says. “There is still time. Come work for me, I’ll call the hit off.”  
James hisses in annoyance. “I’m not interested in your little club. Look at me, look at the way I dress!” He plucks at his black t-shirt. “I didn’t get into this business to network or do lunch meetings. I got into it for the lifestyle. I work alone, Lone Gunman, do you understand me? This is a one-on-one business, and highly illegal. The more people you bring in, the more problems you have.”  
Pierce doesn’t look impressed by his speech. “For this enterprise to succeed that means no alternate operatives. All business, all contracts, all targets are regulated, do you understand? Any independent contractors will be regarded as a threat and they will be dealt with accordingly.” Pierce leans forward, threatening. “You are with us, or you are dead.”  
“Jesus Christ, it’s all or nothing with you!” James snaps. “Look, if it makes you feel any better, this is my last assignment. After this I’m retiring, okay? So back the fuck off.”  
Pierce glares at him. “You are with us, or you’re against us.”  
“Yeah, you said that already.”  
“James,” Pierce shakes his head. “You give me no alternative.”  
“You want to send your guy after me,” James hisses. “Send him. I’ll take him down, along with every other knuckle-dragging fuckwit that signs up to your shitty little union. Or you can walk away and let this be the end of it.”  
“Very well,” Pierce says slowly, smoothing down the lapels of his shirt. “You had your chance.”  
He gets up, and gives James a last, dissapointed look. “I’m sorry it has come to this.”  
“Yeah, sure you are,” James snorts. “Go on. Fuckitty bye.”  
Pierce skulks off as the waitress brings James’ pizza. James picks up the slice and thinks of minefields. How careful steps are all well and good, but when it’s getting too dark to see, sometimes you just gotta pick a direction and start running.

*

James runs his fingers through his hair one last time and knocks on the door to Steve’s apartment.  
He’d resisted the urge to go out and buy a suit, sticking with familiar clothes and the jacket Steve gave him.  
The door opens, and Steve peers out. He grins and holds open the door. “You came back.”  
“I came back,” James slips through the door and settles his hands around Steve’s waist.  
Steve grasps him by the wrists and kisses him, sweet and far too brief. “Tony’s here. He wants to say hi.”  
James manages to catch the curse before it slips out, but Steve still huffs at him. “Go. Be nice.”  
“I am nice,” James grumbles as Steve pushes him towards the lounge and disappears into his bedroom, supposedly to fetch a coat.  
James edges into the room, and finds Tony sat on a large L shaped couch, a glass of scotch in his hand and several schematics arranged on the coffee table in front of him.  
“Hey Tony,” James holds up his hand in an awkward wave. “It’s Barnes, remember me?”  
Tony glances up. “Oh yeah, I remember you.” He returns to his schematics. “You came back. Guess I owe Steve ten bucks.”  
“Yeah.” James bites his tongue. “So how’s business? I hear you’re saving the planet.”  
“Clean energy,” Tony clarifies. “Arc Reactor technology, my own design. Unlimited clean energy for all, no fossil fuels, no melting of the polar ice caps.” he waves his hand airily. “Polar bears, blah blah.”  
“That’s great,” James nods. “And… uh… thank you. For looking out for Steve.”  
Tony’s doesn’t look up from his work. “You have any idea what it was like?”  
“Tony…” James murmurs.  
“No, you listen,” Tony sits up straight, giving James his full attention. “Do you have any idea what it was like? Watching him break? ‘He’ll be back in a day or two, Tony. He’ll be back in a month or two, Tony. He’ll be back for the funeral, Tony’.” Tony takes an angry swig of Scotch. “You know how stubborn he is, he’s not a guy to give up, let things go.”  
James doesn’t argue, just keeps his head down while Tony says his piece.  
“Was it at least worth it,” Tony waves his glass in James direction. “Tell me it was worth it.”  
“No,” James says simply. “It wasn’t.”  
“You know it took a year before he told me what was going on with you two,” Tony drains his glass and reaches for the bottle on the coffee table. “So what have you been doing all this time? Sex? Drugs? Indoctrinated into a cult.”  
James shakes his head. “Professional killer.”  
Tony chokes on his Scotch, and has to set the glass down for a minute to recuperate. “Well good for you, I hear it’s a growth industry. So what’s your specialty? Polonium in sushi? Poisoned darts? You dress up in black leather, is it like a sex thing?”  
James can’t help but chuckle. “Sniper rifle, I try to avoid close range, it gets a little messy.”  
“What, you don’t look ‘em in the eye before you grease them?” Tony picks up his glass. “Watch the light leave their eyes or some crap like that?”  
“Yeah, ‘cause that ain’t fucking creepy,” James grimaces.  
Tony huffs and swills the Scotch around in his glass. “You guys patched things up? Making a go of it?”  
“He’s the only man I ever loved,” James says softly.  
“ _Love is a smoke raised with the fume of sighs, being purged, a fire sparkling in_ … Eh, I don’t remember the rest.” Tony holds up the bottle. “Come, have a drink.”  
“Ah, no.” James shakes his head. “Driving, so…”  
Tony nods in understanding, and refills his glass. “Go on, then. Have fun you kids, bring him back by midnight.”  
“Good to see you, Tony,” James looks over at Steve’s room as the door opens. He can tell just by looking that Steve’s been listening to the whole damn conversation.  
“Of course it is,” Tony nods to himself. “I’m scintillating.”

Steve is quiet on the drive to Brooklyn, his hand a warm weight on James’ thigh.  
James glances at him now and then, checking that he’s at least happy, if not talkative.  
“You nervous?” James asks. “I mean about going back?”  
“Nah,” Steve shakes his head.  
“Why not? I’m nervous. I’m nervous as hell.” James frowns. “I should have brought a gun.”  
“Thought you were supposed to be a badass,” Steve chuckles. “Can’t you karate chop people you don’t like or something?”  
“Karate chop? Jesus, Steve.” James laughs and covers Steve’s hand with his own, their fingers interlacing.  
High School looks the same as it always did, the same off-white walls and endless hallways. They queue up at reception for their name tags, handed out by a woman called Sharon that James remember far too well. She smiles at Steve suggestively, despite the way James has an arm around his shoulders.  
“Hey Steve,” she purrs.  
“Yeah, hi…” James leans forward and makes a show of reading her name tag. “Sharon. Good to see you.”  
He pulls Steve away from the table and walks him down to where the reunion is being held.  
“Holy shit, Buck. That was cold,” Steve whispers. “Didn’t take you for the jealous type.”  
“Are you kidding me,” James grumbles. “The three weeks you guys dated were the worst of my fucking life.”  
“It wasn’t that long, and anyway we were just friends.” Steve leans into him, and James presses a hard kiss to the top of his head. “What about you? You had girls buzzing around you like flies.”  
James flaps his hands as if he could wave the words away. “And just as annoying.”  
Steve opens his mouth to argue, but they push through the doors to the gym and any words are drowned out by tinny pop music on the school's budget sound system.  
They make their way over to the bar, and Steve insists on getting the drinks, pushing a bottle of soda into James' hand. Steve, the turncoat, slips out from under James arm and goes looking for some familiar faces.  
“You’re no fun,” James mutters. “How are we supposed to get through this sober?”  
As if to prove his point James immediately gets cornered by some guy in insurance who starts telling him about life endowment policies.  
There is a ballpoint pen in James' pocket. He could easily get the guys femoral artery without anyone seeing in the flashing lights of the room.  
James silently counts to ten, and waits for the moment to pass.

He works his way through the room, nodding and smiling to the people who insist on stopping him to introduce themselves, and searches for Steve. He was a sniper in the fucking army, one guy in a badly lit gym shouldn’t be so damn hard.  
He finds an empty seat by one of the tables set out near the dance floor, and figures Steve will come find him when he want to.  
Across from him there are two women talking to each other, one of them with a young girl sat on her knee. The girl looks familiar, though it takes him a minute to place her. She sees him looking and gives a shy wave. James looks around to see if anyone is watching them, and waves back.  
The girl tugs on her Mom’s sleeve and point James out, and she looks at him curiously.  
“Maggie, right?” James asks. “James Barnes.”  
Her expression lights up. “Scott’s friend! Hi, nice to meet you. This is Cassie,” She says as she strokes her daughter's back. “Cassie, this is a friend of your Daddy.”  
Cassie smiles delightedly. “Are you the one that disappeared? Did you get abducted by aliens?”  
James laughs, more at himself than anything. “Yeah, that’s me. And no, I wasn’t abducted by aliens.”  
“Were you stolen by Pirates?” Cassie asks. “Did they make you swab the deck?”  
James shakes his head, and she looks disappointed. “How old is she?” he asks Maggie.  
“Seven,” Maggie says proudly.  
“Seven?” James mock gasps in surprise, making Cassie giggle. “Must be a handful.”  
“Like you wouldn’t believe,” Maggie groans. “But she’s worth it.”  
“Yeah?” James tries not to sound so incredulous.  
“My god, yeah,” Maggie nods. “You spend the first few years of their life just trying to keep them alive, you know? Some nights I’d wake up, rush into her room and lean over the cot, just to listen, make sure she’s breathing.”  
“Fu-” James snaps his mouth shut and gives Maggie an apologetic look.  
She shakes her head “She’s heard a lot worse, believe me.”  
Cassie jumps to her feet and starts twirling around. “Dance with me, Mommy?”  
“In a minute, peanut,” Maggie promises. “I won’t pretend it’s not the hardest thing you’ll ever do. But it’s worth it, it’s worth everything.”  
Cassie holds her arms out to James. “Dance with me!”  
“Oh, no,” James shakes his head. “I don’t dance.”  
“Come on, it’s easy,” she bounces up and down. “I’ll show you.”  
“Well….” James draws out the word, “Be gentle with me.”  
She grabs his hands and drags him over to the dance floor, and he trips over his feet trying not to step on her on the way. Cassie bullies him into position, showing him where to put his hands and move his feet, and he lets her lead him around the floor.  
“Spin?” James asks, and she nods enthusiastically, letting him whirl her around and catching her when she stumbles.  
Her hands are so tiny in his, and he hardly dares to touch them, for fear he might crush them.

Cassie has led him around the floor for two songs, and a third is just starting, when James looks up and sees Steve watching him. There is a softness in his gaze that makes James stumble, and Cassie tuts at him to watch his feet. He apologises, and she is gracious, letting him spin her around again and again.  
Scott comes wandering over as they dance, and sneaks up behind his daughter. “Hey peanut!”  
She whirls around and squeals in delight when he scoops her up. “Daddy!”  
Scott turns to James and gives him a grateful smile. “You’re really good with kids. This little terror runs us ragged.”  
James shakes his head. “Never thought I’d hear that said about me.”  
Scott laughs and throws Cassie over his shoulder. James waves at them as they go back to the tables, pretending not to notice Steve sidle over.  
“Hey,” Steve says. “You wanna dance?”  
The current song ends and the next one queued up is a slow number, so James wraps his arms around Steve’s waist and sways him along to the music. Steve snorts and links his hands behind James neck, moving with him.  
“You having a good time?” Steve asks.  
“Terrible,” James deadpans, and Steve tips his head back and laughs. “Three guys tried to sell me insurance already.”  
“Only three?” Steve shakes his head. “That ugly mug of yours put them off.”  
“Good,” James growls, which only makes Steve laugh harder.  
Steve rests his his head on James’ shoulder, and when no one is looking brushes his mouth against the edge of collarbone peeking out from under his shirt. James shivers and swears under his breath, which Steve takes as license to do it a second time, grazing his teeth along the ridge of bone.  
“You keep doing that an’ I’m gonna get arrested for public indecency.”  
Steve gives a sly look and bites down hard. James swears again, loud enough for other dancers to notice.  
“You wanna get out of here?”  
Steve nods, and James pulls him across the dance floor, abandoning all subtlety in favour of getting him somewhere private as soon as possible. 

The corridors leading from the gym to the classrooms are deserted, end of year posters still hanging from the walls. Steve turns to James, pressing his back up against the lockers lined along the wall, and opens his arms.  
His kisses are slow and measured, each one carefully considered before being placed. James closes his eyes, letting Steve control the pace, happy enough to be in his arms and embraced so sweetly.  
“So where do you wanna go?” he asks as Steve nibbles along his jaw.  
“Go?” Steve mumbles against his skin.  
“Yeah. You and me, going away for a while, remember?” Steve kisses his throat. “Europe? Paris, go see the Louvre? Or Italy, like Florence or somewhere.”  
“Here is just fine, Buck.”  
“What, right here?” James mutters. “We could go to Spain or something but you’d rather fool around in your old high school?” He shakes his head. “You got some weird kinks, Rogers.”  
Steve laughs, pressing his face to James’ shirt. “Okay, okay,” he kisses James on the cheek. “How about we start with your hotel room, see where we go from there?”  
“Fucking finally,” Bucky sighs, and pulls Steve away from the lockers.  
“Hey, hold up,” Steve laughs. “I should go say goodbye to a few people, first.”  
“Fine.” James purses his lips. “Meet you out front?”  
Steve gives him a last, brief kiss and gives him a pat on the chest before heading back down the corridor.  
“Hey, Buck?” he calls out, and holds up his phone.  
James holds still, and lets him take a picture before heading back to the gym.

James wanders along the corridor, his footsteps echoing throughout the empty hallways, slowly making his way back to the main entrance. He whistles to himself, scuffing his shoes on the polished floor, killing time.  
There are footsteps behind him, too heavy to be Steve’s, and he turns around, expecting to see someone drunk or nostalgic cruising around their old lockers. Instead he finds Brock Rumlow bearing down on him.  
“Oh, you've gotta be shitting me,” James groans.  
Rumlow pulls a gun out from a concealed holster and grins wickedly. “I been looking for you.”  
“Fuck off,” James snaps. It’s not the best comeback, but he’s honestly not in the mood. “Look, tell Pierce I’m quitting, alright? I’m not competition for your little clubhouse.”  
Rumlow keeps stalking closer and raises his gun. “You think I care?”  
James dodges to the right and runs forward, trying to grab the gun. Rumlow, expecting him to retreat, falters before collecting himself, but James has a hold of his wrist by then. They struggle for the weapon, Rumlow shouldering James into the row of lockers, and the door of the one he hits buckles inwards. James kicks out, connecting with Rumlow’s knee and he lets out a scream, twisting out of James’ grip and bringing the grip of the gun down on his face. He twitches his head to one side, and the grip smacks him on the eyebrow, tearing through the skin but barely missing crunching into his nose. James kicks at his knee again, half-blind from the blood trickling in his eye, and hears a dull crunch. Rumlow staggers and James punches him in the face, once, twice, and Rumlow snarls and brings the gun around again.  
James makes another grab for his wrist, pushing the gun up. Rumlow grabs his hair with his free hand and slams James' head into the lockers with a hollow clang. James clutches at his sleeve, but Rumlow has the advantage, and drives his head back into the thin steel hard enough to make the world over bright and fuzzy around the edges.  
James fumbles around, reaching into his pocket and closing his hand around a ballpoint pen. He pulls it out and flicks off the cap with his thumb, holding it tightly as Rumlow wraps a hand around his neck and starts to squeeze.  
James lets go of Rumlow’s wrist and grabs him by the collar of his jacket, tugging it down. Rumlow laughs, and tilts his head to one side. It’s the opening James needed, and he drives the pen deep into his throat, punching through the carotid artery. He twists the pen down, blood pouring over his hand and soaking into the sleeve of his jacket and it snaps in half, the jagged plastic piercing the ragged mess of Rumlow’s throat.  
Rumlow gasps, clutching at his ruined neck and trying to stem the flow of blood with his fingers. He topples backwards, hitting the floor with a heavy thud, and James sits heavily on the floor.

“Bucky?”  
James looks up, and sees Steve a little way down the corridor, coming towards him.  
“Fuck,” he whispers, and looks down at his blood soaked hands, trembling in his lap. “Fuck.”  
Steve slows down, taking in the sight of James, beaten and bloody, and the body lying in front of him.  
“Bucky?”  
James shakes his head. “It wasn’t me,” he utters, and winces with the idiocy of the statement. He has blood on his hands, who else could it have been?  
Steve comes a little closer, and looks down at the body, his mouth twisted in confusion. “He’s dead.”  
“His name is Brock Rumlow,” James clenches his fingers, trying to keep them from shaking. “He was sent here to kill me.”  
Steve turns and starts walking with purpose down the corridor.  
Fuck  
“Stevie?” James calls after him in a panic. “Wait.”  
Steve ignores him, and reaches up to grab one of the end of year banners hanging from the wall. He drops it down on the floor beside James, and goes to fetch another one, arranging them beside the body.  
“You’re gonna have to carry him,” Steve says, pushing Rumlow onto the banner and wrapping him up.  
James wonders how badly he hit his head, and gingerly touches his scalp. His fingers come away sticky and red.  
“I can’t carry him,” Steve says slowly. “You have to do it.”  
James stares blankly as Steve wraps the last of the banners around the body. There’s only a few drops of blood on the floor, barely noticeable.  
“Where?” he asks.  
“Basement,” Steve gets up, and looks at the broken lockers. “The furnace is down there.”  
Steve looks up and down the corridor, calm and in control, and for a moment James wonders what it would be like working with him. Jesus Christ, the rest of the world wouldn't stand a chance against Steve Rogers when he has his mind set on something.  
“Come on,” Steve says impatiently. “Before someone sees us.”

James shoves Rumlow’s gun into the waistband of his pants, then hefts the body over his shoulder in a fireman's lift and follows Steve to the stairwell. He takes the stairs slowly, still disoriented. His head is pounding, a rhythmic ache in time with the beat of his heart.  
Steve leads the way to the boiler room, holding the door open for James to carry the body through, and finds a rag, folding it over in his hands and using it to open the scalding hot iron doors of the furnace. There is a roar of flame and a blast of heat that makes James stagger back a little, grimacing and lurching forward. He shoves the body through the door and Steve slams it shut, shaking his hand and swearing at his singed fingers.  
James slumps down on the floor, despite the heat the furnace is throwing off. Sweat prickles his skin, and the air is filled with the foul smell of burning hair.  
Steve paces back and forth, agitated and panicky. “He was going to kill you, yeah?” he asks suddenly.  
James nods and rubs his aching head. The cut above his eye has closed up, and the dried blood on his face flakes off when he rubs at it.  
“It wasn’t the other way around?” Steve presses.  
“No,” James rubs his eyes. “I told him to go away, told him I wasn’t a threat.” He lets out a deep, ragged sigh. “Some folks just like killing. Doesn’t matter why.”  
“But not you?” Steve stops pacing. Good, James was getting dizzy watching him. “Was it something you did?”  
James shakes his head. “Something I do.” He lowers his head, unable to look Steve in the eye. “Professionally. For about five year now.”  
“No,” Steve says weakly. “No. It was a joke. You were joking.”  
“It’s not a joke,” James tells the floor between them.  
“You… you kill people?”  
“Yeah.” James folds his hands over his stomach. “I kill people.”  
“For money.” Steve sounds horrified, and James keeps his head down, unable and unwilling to see the way Steve must be looking at him.  
He can guess well enough.  
“People do it for a lot of reasons. The truth is you do it because you’re trained to, you’re encouraged to, and… I was good at it.” James covers his face with his hands. “And you get to like it.”  
Steve makes a soft sound of absolute horror.  
“I know it sounds bad, but there’s a certain… satisfaction in a job well done. The people they send me after, you read the files on them and… you can’t argue that the world wouldn’t be a better place without them in it.”  
“You’re a psychopath,” Steve whispers.  
“No,” James sits up and looks Steve in the eye. He looks so fucking small, pressed up against the wall with his hands clasped over his mouth. And James regrets every decision of his reckless fucking life.  
“A psychopath kills for no reason. I kill for money.” James screws his eyes shut and shakes his head. “The point is I… lost my taste for it.” He laughs bitterly. “I got allergic to it.”  
Steve runs his hands through his hair and takes a deep breath. “Why did you come back, Bucky?”  
James tugs at his matted hair, and sees no use in pretending. It’s all over, whatever he says.  
“A job. I wasn’t even gonna come to the reunion. But then I walked into you and…” he shrugs. “You were the last time I was happy.”  
Steve pushes away from the wall and storms toward the door.  
“Steve!” James scrambles to his feet, and the world twists sideways. “Don’t go.”  
Steve turns on his heel. “Stay away from me.”  
James reaches out for his hand, but Steve pulls it away.  
“Stay the fuck away from me,” Steve yells, and James flinches back.  
Steve pushes his way through the door, and is gone. James does not chase after him. 

James rests his back against the door. His head hurts. His heart aches.  
He groans softly, feeling capable of nothing more than to sit in the dark in a too-hot room and bleed for a while, and weighs up his options.  
He has no shortage of money, and a fake passport. He could pick a country and start over. Or go back to DC and be one of the guys propping up the bar at Pinche.  
Neither option appeals.  
There is an unopened dossier in his hotel room. A last job.  
He sighs and plucks at the dried blood on his sleeve. The jacket is ruined, like everything else. There’s no way he can walk out of the school with it on and not raise questions.  
He gets up, slipping off the jacket and bundling it up, and walks back to the furnace. He manages to get the heavy iron door open, and throws the bundle of denim into the flames, slamming the door shut again and burning his hand.  
He looks down at the blister forming on his wrist, and wonders absently why he can’t feel it.  
He slips out of the boiler room, checking up and down the hallway before heading for the nearest bathroom. The wall of mirrors above the sink that he used to preen in front of shows dried blood crusted down the side of his face and hands, his hair tangled and matted. He touches the back of his head where a bruise is forming and pokes it, almost curious. A dull sensation, a shout of pain from far, far away.  
He washes his hands, cupping them under the tap and splashing water on his face, scrubbing the blood with his fingers until the worst of it has swirled down the drain.  
No one sees him leave the school, the party winding down as the last few stragglers doze over their drinks at the bar or cling to each other on the dance floor.  
James drives back to his hotel and takes a couple of aspirin before taking a long, hot shower. He washes the blood out of his hair, massaging shampoo into the mats and tangles before rinsing and repeating until the water runs cold. He shaves and towels himself dry before sitting on the edge of his bed in a thin hotel bathrobe and combing out his tangled hair.  
He doesn’t feel any better for all the effort, but he at least feels human.  
The dossier is still under the bed, and he has to lie on the floor and stretch his arm under to reach it. He rips the envelopes open and pours the contents onto the bed. Schedules, a biography and a handful of photographs spill across the mattress.  
James picks up one of the photos and holds it up to the light.  
“Fuck.”

*

Tony is deeply uncomfortable with queueing for coffee.  
He has a perfectly good machine back at the apartment, along with a single estate Guatemalan roast that works perfectly well for him, thank you very much. But Steve wanted one of those foam and syrup monstrosities, and had asked with such a look of misery that it was hard to refuse.  
The barista hands him a caramel something-or-other and a paper bag with the chocolate muffin and cinnamon roll he’d ordered to go with the coffee. He says thanks, because his mom at least tried to raise him right, and heads back outside.  
Across the street a white van pulls up sharply, its wheels screeching, and Tony pulls his sunglasses down his nose and takes a closer look. He gets a glimpse of an older man with blond hair and the kind of looks that might have been handsome before gravity did its thing.  
Tony strokes his finger under his chin and wonders about plastic surgery. He’s not old but he’s not young either, and there's only so much that yoga and goji berries can actually do.  
A car pulls up alongside him, the engine still running, and the passenger door pops open. He takes a step back and glances inside. What the hell is wrong with everyone today?  
The man behind the wheel looks familiar, though Tony doesn’t really hang out with the kind of people with bleeding wounds on their faces.  
“Barnes?”  
“Get in the fucking car,” Barnes yells.  
Across the street the side door of the van slides open, and Barnes lunges towards him, grabbing the front of his shirt and pulling him down.  
The coffee flies out of his hand, hitting the side of the car and spraying milk foam and sugar syrup across the wheel arch. Two men holding automatic weapons lean out of the van and start firing.  
Tony screams and dives into the car, landing half on the passenger seat and half in Barnes’ lap as bullets shatter the windows. Barnes grabs the back of his jacket and stamps down on the accelerator, the passenger door swinging wildly and banging into Tony’s legs, still sticking out of the door.  
Outside people start screaming and ducking for cover, and Barnes weaves down the street, trying to make out the road ahead through the cracked windscreen. Tony tucks in his feet, and on the next sharp turn the door swings closed hard enough to latch.  
“What the hell, Barnes?” Tony shouts. The bag of pastries is crushed underneath him, and he starts to sit up.  
“Stay down,” Barnes snaps, grabbing the back of his head and shoving him down.  
“I don’t play rough,” Tony says indignantly, and the rear window explodes.  
Barnes doesn’t even glance back, but Tony turns around and sees the white van following them, one of the men hanging out out the side and aiming his gun.  
Barnes curses, and Tony turns back to see traffic up ahead.  
“Stay the fuck down,” Barnes yells, and Tony ducks down before he’s pushed.  
Barnes hauls on the wheel and the car turns sharply, sending Tony tumbling face first into the footwell. He can hear the sound of Barnes punching out the windscreen, followed by the smash and clatter of him driving through trash cans and garbage.  
“There’s a contract out on your life,” Barnes explains, twisting the wheel in the opposite direction and sending Tony tumbling again. “I was hired to kill you.”  
“Is this how you’re planning on killing me?” Tony tries to right himself. “Because I think I’d prefer being shot.”  
Barnes glares at him for a moment before returning his attention to the road. “I’m not gonna kill you, but this guy Pierce wants us both dead because of it.”  
Barnes slams on the breaks, and Tony ends up in the footwell again.  
“Come on,” Barnes opens the driver side door. “Move.”

*

James hurries Tony up to the apartment, pulling out his gun and checking the chamber. Fuck, why didn’t he bring more guns? They crash through the door and Tony stumbles into the living room while James locks up behind them and starts looking around for a barricade.  
“Tony?” Steve calls, and comes out to see what the noise is. “Bucky, what the hell?”  
James risks a brief glance at him, and picks out a promising unit against the wall. “Someone help me move this.”  
Steve and Tony both come over to help, sliding it in front of the door.  
“Someone…” Tony rips off his sunglasses and rubs at his eyes. “Someone wants me dead.”  
Steve looks between them. “Tony is your target? Tony? And you didn’t warn me?”  
“I only just found out,” James says weakly.  
“Who ordered it?” Steve asks as James goes to the kitchen in search of something useful.  
“Guy named Cross, Darren Cross. Think’s you’re a threat to his place in Stark Industries.”  
“Stark Industries? I quit Stark Industries. Jesus, why does no one believe me?” Tony sputters. “Hang on, does this have something to do with Obie?”  
James pulls a knife from a wooden block on the kitchen counter and checks the blade. “Yeah, that was me.”  
“You killed Obie?” Tony yells, and reaches out to grab one of the other knives.  
“Now just a minute,” James takes a step back, casting around the apartment for other weapons. “Your pal Obie put out a hit on you too. Couple of years back, A million dollars to take you out. The Ten Rings took him up on it.”  
He starts herding Steve and Tony to the bathroom. Lockable door, running water, they can hold out a while in there at least.  
“The Ten Rings?” Tony lets himself be pushed through the bathroom door. “But they’re all dead. It was all over the news. Infighting, they killed each other.”  
James shakes his head. “Guy called Yinsen paid me five hundred bucks to deal with them.” He turns to Steve and holds out his gun. “You know how to use this?”  
Steve looks uncertain, but takes the gun. Someone starts hammering on the apartment door.  
“Lock the door,” James tells him. “Anyone comes in, you shoot them.”  
“What about you?” Steve asks as James pushes him into the bathroom.  
James doesn’t answer, just pulls the door shut and waits for the sound of the lock clicking into place.

“James,” Pierce calls through the door. “There is no need for this. Open the door, and we can kill Stark together, let bygones be bygones.”  
“Fuck off,” James yells, and pushes the couch into a better position for hiding behind.  
James runs back to the bathroom and taps on the door. “Stevie?”  
“Buck, make the gun work.”  
There is a click of the lock, and James opens the door just enough to catch a glimpse of him. Tony is crouched in the bathtub, Steve wedged under the sink.  
“Give me that,” James holds his hand out, and Steve passes him the gun.  
“Gilmore Hodge,” James turns off the safety and hands it back.  
“What?” Steve takes the gun warily. “That guy who beat me up in high school?”  
“After we… You know,” James gestures with the kitchen knife. “I was sat on the end of the bed, watching you sleep. I know it sounds creepy, but I was watching you sleep and thinking about how precious you are to me, and how no one else in the world sees past your size or your bad temper or your… have you met anyone and not punched them? Anyway, it’s not important .” James shifts the knife in his grip. “But no one else could see the value in you. And every day assholes like Gilmore fucking Hodge beat your ass and you wouldn’t stay down. And I realised the next person who laid a hand on you, I would kill them. Didn’t care who they were, or why they did it. If they made you bleed, if they left bruises on your body, they had to die.”  
“Bucky,” Steve whispers.  
Pierce fires off a couple of rounds in the door, the wood blasting apart. The two grunts he brought with him start shouldering it open.  
“That’s fucked up, right?” James shakes his head. “It’s fucked up. So I figured since I love you and was so obviously fucked up, and I mean my Dad didn’t help things, I wasn’t exactly raised in a loving environment.” James tries to smile, but it comes out as a grimace. “You’d be better off without me.”  
There is a crash from the hallway, and James looks over his shoulder.  
“Lock the door,” he whispers, and pushes it shut.

James presses up by the front door and waits for the first goon to come through. It’s a risky strategy, going up close and personal, but he has a good sized knife, and something worth fighting for.  
The first guy comes through and James slashes at him, stabbing the knife into his exposed throat. The wound opens like a smile and he drops to the ground, his trigger finger twitching and sending out a spray of bullets. James grabs the handgun tucked into his waistband and sprints for the lounge, diving behind the couch as the second goon steps over his dead colleague and starts firing.  
Tony's couch is shredded by bullets in less than a minute, and James crawls out from under it and into the kitchen on his hands and knees, his movements obscured by the shreds of fabric and foam spinning through the air.  
He hides behind the breakfast bar and takes aim, tracking the guy's movement and pulling the trigger. He drops to the ground, blood trickling from a hole in his forehead.  
After a long pause, Pierce steps carefully into the room, an uzi in each hand.  
“James,” he calls. “Join us. We can kill Stark together, and go out for coffee.”  
James aims and fires, but Pierce is moving too erratically. His gun clicks, empty and with nothing to show for it but a zigzagging line of pockmarks in the wall to Pierce’s right.  
There’s not much else he can do with it, so he waits for a moment when Pierce is looking the other way and throws the gun at him.  
It clocks him on the side of the head, Pierce lets out an angry snarl and opens fire. James ducks down again, and withdraws Rumlow’s gun. He waits for Pierce to reload and takes aim. The gun jams and James curses Rumlow’s taste in weaponry.  
“You’re with us or against us, James. You know that.” He walks towards the kitchen, firing indiscriminately, bullets tearing through the cabinets, and James drops to the floor, his head between his knees. he can hear the crunch of Pierce’s patent leather shoes as he crosses the floor, slowly approaching the ruined kitchen.  
There is a cast iron frying pan on the range, and James carefully edges over, keeping out of the line of Pierce’s sight, and picks it up. He shifts along the last surviving kitchen unit, ducked down low for cover, and picks up a piece of wood. he tosses it to his left, and Pierce follows the sound.  
James leaps to his feet as soon as Pierce comes within range and smashes him in the face with the pan. There is a loud, wet crunch and Pierce drops his guns, pawing at his broken nose. Blood spurts down his chin, soaking his expensive looking suit, and James swings again. Pierce drops to the ground and James brings the pan down one last time, just to make sure.

“Steve?” James hunches down at the bathroom door. “It’s me.”  
Steve unlocks the door and pushes it open with his left hand, the handgun held tightly in his right. He takes in the sight of James, crouched down by the bathroom door with tufts of sofa padding stuck to his clothes and woodchip in his hair.  
“I’m not saying you should forgive and forget,” James says, exhaustion seeping through his words. “And I’m not asking you to fix me, that’s my responsibility.” He wipes a trickle of blood from his chin. “But I am trying, I swear. I’m trying to-”  
Steve puts the gun down on the tiled floor and throws himself into James’ arms, kissing him hard enough to open up the cut on his lip again. The force of it knocks James on his ass and he lets out a soft grunt of discomfort, but Steve doesn’t seem to think that it’s reason enough to stop kissing him. James has to agree, and wraps his arms around Steve’s waist, kissing him back.  
“Guys,” Tony peers over the rim of the bathtub, armed with a rubber duck. “I don’t need to see this.”

*


End file.
